


Black Wings, Black Sails

by the_glow_worm



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Pirates, Tswana Empire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-05-19 15:06:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5971342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_glow_worm/pseuds/the_glow_worm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His dragon taken from him, William Laurence leaves the service with little more than a bitter grudge against aviators and his Majesty's government. Slave ships and traders learn to fear his black flag; port towns on the African coast and Portuguese Brazil tremble when they hear rumors of his presence. Yet, inexplicably, he begins to set his target on dragon transports-and one moonless night the Allegiance, bound for China, finds itself under raid.</p>
<p>Tags, characters, and pairings to be added as they become relevant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The pirate captain fought until the very last minute, even with six dragons of a Longwing formation descending inexorably upon him; he and a lone group of fighters were gaining time for his ragged boarding crew to dive straight back over the side of the transport. Through the darkness Granby could see them slipping through the water like seals, too many and quick for the dragons to get at. The larger fleet had already melted into darkness. Only the flagship had been caught; Granby could see the careful lettering on its side that proclaimed it the _Judgment of God_.

 

The captain himself had spent his chance at escape. Yet even as he went to his knees in surrender, his face showed no great signs of fear; indeed, he looked scornful more than anything else. Unlike his crew, clad mostly in motley, the man maintained a battered but respectable coat and even a neckcloth. Granby had heard him referred to as the Gentleman Pirate; there were many who whispered that he was some nobleman’s son. Granby had not given that in itself much thought. To turn to piracy, as if a vote in the House of Lords and a grand estate were not enough, seemed exactly to him like the kind of thing a spoilt nobleman’s son would do.

 

Yet looking at him now, Granby found it impossible to return to that conclusion. Lily had landed on the deck; her head with the savage bone spurs were scarcely a foot away from his head, but the pirate only looked back without the slightest hint of alarm. He thought there was almost a certain softening about his eyes—but Granby shook that idea away. There was nothing but cold composure in the lines of that face, a focused determination that was almost awful to behold. Granby looked away and saw Captain Riley making his way up the deck to receive the surrender.

 

He and the pirate were a study in contrasts. While Riley looked decidedly rumpled in a jacket and breeches hastily put on over his nightshirt, the pirate’s clothing was neat and recently brushed, if worn thin. And then this, too: in the face of the pirate’s deadly calm, Riley was ashen pale and trembling.

 

“Good evening, Tom,” said the pirate, as if over a game of whist. “Would you accept my parole for my men?”

 

Riley seemed to regain some of his spark after being addressed in so familiar a manner, although his hands still trembled. He answered coolly,

 

“As you have behaved in a un-gentlemanlike manner, and not according to the known conventions of war, I cannot consider you to be bound by either your honor or by your parole. You and your men will be confined below, as will the men on your ship—”

 

“It would be wiser to accept my parole,” said the pirate, but quietly. There was something like reproof in Captain Riley’s voice, anger and sadness all mixed together.

 

“Captain, do you know this man?” called down Harcourt sharply from Lily’s back, asking the question they were all wondering. “I do not think we should keep him below at all, but rather load him straightaway onto Dulcia to take back to Dover. I suppose this is that pirate king we’ve all been hearing so much of.”

 

“I shan’t like to have him on Dulcia at all,” said Chenery uneasily. “Although I suppose we can bind him up hand and foot and throw him in the belly-netting. Who is he, anyway?”

 

“My name is Will Laurence,” said the man, cutting off Riley before he could reply. “I served eighteen years in His Majesty’s Navy, and you are not wrong to fear having me aboard your dragon.”

 

More than one fist tightened whitely at that. Berkeley, sliding down from Maximus, nearly purpled in rage.

 

“Why, the impudence,” he growled, glaring. “We ought to hunt down each and every one of the ships in your fleet.”

 

“For the sake of your beasts, I must advise against it,” said Will Laurence coolly. Even in surrender he was a commanding presence, his broad shoulders ramrod straight, his cheek splashed with another man’s blood. “My sharpshooters carry poisoned guns.”

 

“Damn you,” said Berkeley. “What would you care about our beasts anyway? I’ve heard of you. You’re that damn brigand making off with our transports. You took the _William of Orange_ last week.”

 

“And I took the _Polonaise_ from the French the month before that, and just last night two fine frigates. Rather than berate me, you would do better to offer me a letter of marque.”

 

They were all of them pale with anger and speechless at his cheek, and into this tense silent atmosphere came the leathery snapping of wings, and a distant argument coming rapidly closer.

 

“But I am sure that I just heard our formation coming to help,” said Temeraire, protesting. At their feet, the pirate Will Laurence had finally gone pale. “So there’s no need to worry, Dayes, after all, there’s nothing Maximus and Lily and I can’t take on together—”

 

“Blast it all, Temeraire, but you must obey!”

 

“Look!” said Temeraire, not at all heeding. “It _is_ our formation, and those pirates are quite defeated now. Lily, Maximus! How glad I am to see all of you!”

 

The eagerness in the dragon’s voice was like a slap to Granby’s face. It was only more obvious by contrast how loweringly unhappy he had been: not only these past two days at sea, but in the weeks before as well. It wasn’t just the Chinese, although like the rest of the officers Granby had been happy to curse their names. The great victory at Dover had lifted his spirits for a while, but Temeraire had been quiet and withdrawn since before then—since Levitas had died. 

 

It was unusual for a heavyweight and a courier-weight to be so close, but the two of them had been nearly inseparable. Then one day, of course, Rankin had come to complain, and Dayes had had no choice but to order Temeraire to leave him be. When Granby had seen Temeraire come winging into his clearing on early mornings with a guilty air, he had chosen to say nothing. He had not been able to bring himself to tell him that Rankin had been assigned to another Winchester, a young female hatched recently at Chatham; Temeraire had very nearly killed the man when Levitas had died, and Granby supposed that he would try to finish the job if he knew another dragon was in danger.

 

But now he was in his usual spirits, or nearly. All twenty tons of him came down on the deck like a piece of the night sky falling down. “You are not hurt, Granby, are you?” he was inquiring, but then the proud head rose up, sharp, at the sound of a strangled yell.

 

Will Laurence had risen blindly to his feet, shouldering aside the two midshipmen keeping guard on him. There was no sign of scorn or composure on his face now. His expression was only the purest agony.

 

“Temeraire!” he cried out, like nothing Granby had ever heard come out of a human voice. “My God, Temeraire!”

 

They all stared at him, this pirate lord calling out like a madman, and Temeraire curled his head back uncertainly and said, in a very small voice—

 

“Laurence?”

 

The pirate reached out both hands to the sound of his name, staggering forward. They were all momentarily too aghast to move. Dayes, half clambering, half falling from the rigging, limped forward protectively.

 

“ _You_ ,” he said with loathing. “You will stay away from my beast.”

 

Without even a flicker in his eyes, Laurence leapt forward and struck him down. Granby charged in, snapped out of his confusion. Temeraire was roaring out above them, but oddly, wasn’t immediately moving to carve Laurence from throat to spleen. There was a brief confused struggle, all the aviators moving as one man. Granby was only distantly aware that in the background, the pirate crew had also risen to their feet and were grappling afresh with the sailors; all his attention was focused on keeping Laurence back from pummeling his captain. Laurence was powerfully built, tall and broad-shouldered, and he and Ferris together were only slightly a match for him. Then, managing to push Granby back, Laurence turned and knocked down Ferris with a single blow.

 

Above them Temeraire made a wordless cry of protest; Laurence hesitated, and his next blow became a glancing thing. Even so it was enough to send Granby back a few paces, and then into the opening came Captain Berkeley, the hilt of his sword coming down hard on Laurence’s head.

 

The pirate fell straight back into the arms of Captain Riley, who looked as though he had instinctively moved forward to help Laurence. A moment of confused panic came and went over his face, and he let Laurence drop unconscious to the deck. The pirates, too, had stopped struggling, and were indeed dropping back to their knees with an affected nonchalant air, although Granby noticed that they had to a man arranged themselves where Laurence should be within their direct line of sight.

 

Berkeley looked grimly at first Riley and then Dayes, now staggering back up with Temeraire’s anxious assistance.

 

“I think,” he said slowly, “that we are all owed an explanation.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Backstory, part one.

_1805, Madeira_

 

The fellow would not be driven away, no matter how Temeraire growled, and every sentence he spoke was somehow even more unpleasant than the last.

 

“You are wrong, quite wrong,” he said finally, in a rush of temper. “I do not care if you are a proper aviator, if this is what the rest of you are like, all of you may go to the devil together. Laurence is not unhappy to have me, not matter what you say, and if he should want a ship, so should I like to live on one, and as for the gold chain, I will never give it up, and you may try to _take_ it from me, and I do not care if you are so small!” And he threw himself into the air.

 

He had no real good idea of where he was going: only some vague idea that Laurence often went into town propelled him. Perhaps, he reasoned, once he had reached the town he could find someone to give him direction; after all, they could not all be such ninnies that they had to run away just because he was a dragon.

 

His wingbeats took him through the night, still simmering with anger at Dayes. Of course he knew that these things he said were not true, but it was awful to hear them anyway. And he would keep repeating them, as if anything could induce Temeraire to take such a liar as a captain—that man, to compare with Laurence—it was not to be thought of.

 

Yet—Temeraire slowed as this thought came to him—he had always simply assumed that Laurence had been happy to trade in his ship. It had never even occurred to him to ask. Surely he ought to have been as concerned for Laurence’s happiness as he himself was for Temeraire’s.

 

His head drooped. Yet Laurence had never seemed unhappy, he tried to argue to himself, but then—then—if that was true, why had Dayes been allowed to speak with him at all?

 

This was an argument that he could not refute, even to himself. He puzzled at it unhappily as he soared low over the town. Temeraire had never been so close to the town before, and even in his current mood he could not resist casting an eye down to see the bright lights. In the glow of a large front window Temeraire saw two familiar figures emerge from an entranceway. He stopped and hovered above them, wondering if he should call out or not.

 

“Let me congratulate you again, sir,” said Riley, “on your escape; I assure you I speak for every man on the _Reliant_ when I say that we greatly look forward to having you again among us.”

 

The third man emerged from the entrance; the light shifted on his face and Temeraire knew him at once, winging back in horror.

 

“Yes,” said Laurence, but in a voice that Temeraire did not know. “Thank you, Tom, and I would be glad to berth on the ship tonight, if it would not put you out.”

 

His voice was strange. Temeraire had never heard him speak like that before; it was as if he was a stranger, as if—as if he had always been a stranger.

 

Temeraire did not stay to hear more. He flew straight back, faster than he had flown before, faster than Laurence would have approved of. He dropped panting in his field, more messily than he would have liked, and drooped to the ground. Lights and commotion came from the cabin that Laurence had so recently occupied, and Dayes came out of it again. He joined Temeraire in the field, and for the first time did not speak.

 

“You were not lying,” Temeraire said at last. “I thought that you must be, but you were not; he does not want me, he wants his ship.”

 

“I am sorry, Temeraire,” said Dayes then, in a very low voice. His face was hidden in shadow.

 

“I will have you then, for my captain,” said Temeraire at last, bringing himself to it. “For I know at least that you are not a liar, even if the truth is so unpleasant.”

 

Dayes was silent a moment, a long moment, and then said, “No, Temeraire, and I will never lie to you from this point on. You will always know me to be true to you.”

 

* * *

 

“No, sir,” said Laurence. “I thank you very much, sir, but I must decline; I do not choose to return to the Navy.”

 

He had made the decision abruptly, after a restless night of little sleep, and he winced a little at how indelicately it had come out. Still, he continued, even into their staring faces. “I hope, as I am not currently on active duty, this departure should not present an undue inconvenience to you.”

 

“An undue inconvenience?” repeated Admiral Croft, while Riley shut his eyes in disbelief. “And I suppose I know how I am to take that. If you think, Laurence, that I am going to sit here and suffer through this insolence, you are greatly mistaken; your entire attitude is an insult to the very profession of sailing, to the service, and to the king himself—”

 

He went on in this vein for the better part of half an hour while Laurence stood at polite attention. At the end of it Laurence, unmoved, said, “Sir. I see that I have indeed put you out, and I regret it extremely. However, my decision has not been changed.”

 

There was not much to say after that. Croft dismissed him from his office without much ceremony, and kept Riley in only fifteen minutes longer.

 

“Well, I am confirmed as a captain,” said Riley as they went down the street together. “I would congratulate myself on my good fortune if I was not convinced that you had somehow run mad. Will, what on earth were you thinking?”

 

Laurence would have liked to be able to answer that question. All his acquaintance would certainly have congratulated him on a lucky escape. He had berthed on the _Reliant_ last night, fearing that he could not have stayed away from Temeraire if he had taken a room on the island; yet as much as he had missed the wooden walls of his ship, he missed warm scales still more; the sails were not wings, and the ships’ voice could not speak to him.

 

He did not explain this to Riley, however: “I believe I will seek a commission with the East India Company,” he said instead. “That will do very well for me.”

 

“I would be happy to reach out to my contacts,” said Riley after a moment. “It is an honorable trade, and they must always be on the lookout for captains who know their way around the right end of a cannon barrel, particularly after that Pulo Aura incident last year. Not all the French admirals are Linois, more’s the pity—”

 

Riley made a great effort and kept up the chatter all the way back to the ship. Laurence was grateful for the comforting noise: all the better to drown out the too-loud thoughts in his head. The one-sided conversation stopped, abruptly, as they arrived back at the _Reliant_ : a small huddle of trunks and bags were piled not-very-neatly on the dock. With a start Laurence recognized his own belongings.

 

“The damned—” Riley began, and then shut his mouth, his temper starting to come out in his cheeks. Laurence himself felt very little. He walked over to the pile and opened a bag at random: a book fell out.

 

He knelt to pick it up from the dock, turning it over in his hands to read the title. _A Voyage Round the World, Which Was Peformed in the Years 1785, 1786, 1787, and 1788_ ; it was the journals of le Comte de la Pérouse, which they had received only two nights ago and not yet finished reading together. Laurence was seized with a sudden panic: would Dayes read to Temeraire? How would he spend his evenings without his beloved books? He resisted a mad urge to run back to Temeraire’s side, to tell them all that he had changed his mind.

 

“I do not suppose I will be allowed to see him again, or that communication from me would be welcome,” Laurence said out loud. He turned abruptly to Riley. “Sir, I must beg the favor; if in the course of your duties you might see him again, if you would return these books to him—Temeraire, I mean,” he ended, realizing that he had not specified.

 

“Yes, I know. And I will, but Laurence—” Riley looked into his face. “Surely if you go and speak to them, you will be allowed to keep him—”

 

This tracked so closely to his own thoughts that Laurence jerked involuntarily, and only with an effort kept himself absolutely still.

 

“Little good can come of such an endeavor,” he said. “And none at all to Temeraire; I must leave him in the hands of a man more suitable than I.”

 

Riley looked as though he might have liked to argue further, but in the end only shook his head. Laurence left the island two days later for Gibraltar, there to take command of an East Indiaman; not any career he would once have looked for, but all his paths forward now were gray. Laurence was resigned to it, was determined to resigned to it; he would not kick up a fuss out of selfish desire. Temeraire deserved to be happy, deserved to be in the right hands—and then he wondered abruptly, before he could stop the thought, what Temeraire was doing at that moment, and whether he was thinking of Laurence.

 

* * *

 

_Loch Laggan_

 

They were all very kind at Loch Laggan, and Temeraire was thankful for it, but still it was hard to feel himself such a newcomer. He would have liked to speak of it to Dayes, but when he came back to his side he came back with company.

 

“Temeraire, there is someone I’d like you to meet,” said his new captain, his voice bouncing in a way that suggested excitement. “This is my good friend John; John Granby. We served with each other on Laetificat.”

 

“Hello,” Temeraire said politely. Granby was dark-haired, perhaps a little taller than Dayes, although it was hard to tell. “Whom do you serve on now? Are they here at Loch Laggan?”

 

“Oh yes, and very near indeed,” said Dayes, not bothering to stifle a large grin. Granby flushed to his roots.

 

“Leave off, you won’t be picking out your flight crew for weeks anyhow,” he said, although he also seemed happy. Dayes turned to Temeraire, who had been following the exchange with some puzzlement.

 

“Temeraire, I intend to make Granby your first lieutenant if I can manage it,” he explained. “He was second on Laetificat; I cannot personally think of a more dependable man for the job, or one I would more entrust with your safety.”

 

“Oh!” said Temeraire, with rather more interest. He turned his head to better inspect Granby. “So you will be part of my crew. I would like to have much more people with me, like Laetificat and the other dragons here do.” It wasn’t always pleasant to only have one person; when one had only a single person, that person could always go away and suddenly there would be no one at all.

 

Dayes put his hand up to Temeraire’s muzzle. “I suppose you wouldn’t want to fall behind the other dragons, would you,” he said with affection. “Not to worry, we’re starting on maneuvers tomorrow. I expect a full flight crew won’t be too far behind. For now, you should rest.”

 

“I rested earlier. I was thinking instead,” said Temeraire hopefully, “that we could go down to the lake to bathe.”

 

They stared up at him. “Bathe?” asked Dayes. “But whatever for?”

 

He sounded so baffled by the notion that Temeraire hurried to assure him that it was perfectly nice, very enjoyable—“Particularly as I am all over with blood, even though I tried to eat cleanly; there has been no one to clean me—in any case,” he went on hastily, “I am sure the lake will be refreshing.”

 

“Oh—very well then,” said Dayes, after a hesitant moment. “If you like—”

 

It was pleasant to have a proper swim again at last, and when he finally emerged on the shore Dayes and Granby rubbed him dry with especial care. Temeraire luxuriated in the attention. For a moment he was even able to forget what he had overheard Dayes say to Granby, while he had been swimming—he had dunked his head below the surface, but even the water in his ears did not stop him from hearing it.

 

“I suppose that damn naval captain filled his head with soft notions,” spat his new captain. “Bathing, of all things…”

 

“It doesn’t seem to do any harm,” Granby protested, and the argument sunk down into whispers. Temeraire himself froze still, tail twitching underwater. It had not occurred to him that liking to bathe was considered unusual for a dragon. Perhaps, it belatedly occurred to him, reading was as well—too late he recalled Dayes’ surprise at being asked to read, and his confession that he owned no books. But if he, Temeraire, was unusual or improper, surely that was not Laurence’s fault. He had not known the proper way of doing things, and after—after all, he had not even wanted a dragon, in the first place—

 

Or perhaps Temeraire was not a proper dragon at all, and _that_ was why Laurence had not wanted him.

 

Temeraire swam around in circles, but the pleasure had gone out of the bathe, and he returned slowly to shore. He was determined not to dwell any longer on such things. It had all happened in the past, hadn’t it? And now he had a captain that wanted him, and soon a first lieutenant and a whole flight crew. The thought gradually cheered him, and by the time he had come winging back to the courtyard, he was once again in good temper.

 

Granby did not stay for much longer, but Temeraire curled comfortably around Dayes and quizzed him on every aerial battle he had been a part of. He was perhaps not so exciting a storyteller, but he had been a part of a great many actions, which was satisfying. Temeraire was already in a half-doze when Dayes departed for his supper. He roused at the flutter of little wings, and opened his eyes to find a small purple dragon peering at him curiously.

 

“Does your captain take you to bathe?” he asked.

 

“Well, yes,” said Temeraire, embarrassed. “I did not realize it was so unusual, you see.”

 

“But I would like to bathe too,” said the little dragon. “I am sure it would make me feel much more comfortable.” He nosed at his own side, where dried blood had crusted on his harness. “Your captain must care a great deal for you, if he takes you to bathe,” he added sadly.

 

 “Oh—” said Temeraire, wavering on an agreement he wasn’t sure how to give. “But wherever is your captain? I’m sure he will bring you, too, if you ask.”

 

“I have not seen him in three days,” said the dragon, his small head drooping to the ground. “I don’t expect that I will see him soon again, either.”

 

“Well,” said Temeraire awkwardly, “you are always welcome to come with us, anyway; you needn’t have your captain with you at all.”

 

“You would not mind?” The little dragon’s eyes had lit up at the suggestion. “Oh, thank you! How glad I would be to come.”

 

“Why, it is no inconvenience at all,” said Temeraire, feeling very lordly. “I am Temeraire; Dayes is my captain.”

 

“I am Levitas,” said the little dragon. “Rankin is mine.”

 

Temeraire hesitated, but at length could not restrain the question. “Why does he not come? It is not as if you were an unpleasant sort of dragon, that I can see.”

 

Levitas hunched against the question. “He—he says that I must become used to going without his company, for we are in a dangerous service,” he said quickly. “And I am always ready to face danger for him; but I wish it were not so often.”

 

At this Temeraire put his head back in confusion. “But we will all face danger,” he protested. “Or so I understand, and some of the older dragons here have very fine scars so clearly they are used to danger, but none of the other captains stay away.”

 

Levitas shook his head, violently, as if casting away the words.

 

“It is not that he is cruel,” he said, defiantly. “He brings me gifts sometimes, bits of—of jewelry—It’s not—” He hung his head. “You could not understand,” he said finally.

 

Temeraire saw the look on his face, the despair, and the pieces suddenly fell together in his mind. He crept close, putting their heads together.

 

“But I do understand,” said Temeraire, low. “My captain did not want me either.”

 

* * *

 

_The Atlantic Ocean_

 

There was very little room in his head for thought; the men were already sinking through the waves as fast as chains and their own dead weight would drag them. There were sharks in the waters, he thought, briefly, and then his boots were off and he was diving down into the glittering hard surface of the ocean. He had a flickering glimpse of the name in golden letters on the side of the ship, _The Grace of God_ , and had only enough time to hope it was true before the waters closed over his head.

 

Below it was dark. Laurence was only a poor swimmer, but that little was more than most could boast. The two chained men were sinking rapidly; one already limp, pale with surrendered hope. The other was fighting furiously against the depths and the weight of his chains, but he too was running out of air. Laurence dived to their depth, putting an arm firmly under the limp man, and struck out for the light. A rope had been thrown—many ropes—and Laurence reached the nearest and tugged firmly.

 

A moment later they were all on deck. The ship’s doctor was already rushing up to attend to the limp man; he was no sort of surgeon, but it was no great mystery to get water out of a drowning man’s lungs. Laurence raised his head and looked at the other, the darker man; recognition instantly became irritation. There were three hundred and two prisoners on his ship, most of them pickpockets, horse thieves, and common brawlers, and he had just saved the life of John Crowe, the sole murderer on board.

 

By virtue of a combination of personal charisma and fear, he had become something of a leader among the convicts. He created a certain kind of order, at least; they had two weeks ago found the body of a N. Crawley, a rapist, who had been stealing food from a ten-year-old child transported for pickpocketing. He had been beaten to death with his own manacles. It was evidence of the lack of management of the convict-hold that Laurence itched to correct; that two prisoners should have fallen into the sea under the watch of a dozen guards was only further evidence. He could not, however, inspect the hold himself or correct any of the guards without offending them mortally; Laurence had barely been able to assert his authority as captain enough to insist on weekly exercise. The division of labor on board an East India Company transport ship was clear. He was to navigate to Australia and watch over the ship, and the superintendent and his guards were to keep the gaol as they saw fit.

 

His valet had come, anxious to have him out of his wet coat. It seemed absurd to have a valet when he had a crew of just under one hundred to sail what ought to have been a six-hundred man ship-of-the-line, but the life of a merchant captain was different, after all. He shrugged out of his coat, but resisted the offered blanket. Laurence turned his attention to the doctor, who was sitting back on his heels with a resigned expression.

 

“Mr. Orley,” he asked, “is there anything to be done for the disposition of the prisoner?” He doubted the answer very much; the man’s face had already begun to take on the rubbery look of a corpse, despite the two strong men who had been taking it in turns to pump water out of his lungs.

 

“Oh, I suppose not,” the doctor answered glumly. “I shall take his pulse, but all that will determine is whether to throw him over the side now, or if we shall have to give him time with the parson first.”

 

Laurence bit back his first reply and merely nodded. Orley rested his fingers against his throat, and then his wrist, and frowned.

 

“Remove his shirt,” he directed. “I ought listen to the action of his heart and lungs. He may still be alive,” he added grudgingly. “For now.”

 

The other prisoner, still attached to the limp man by chains at the wrist and ankle, lifted his hand and jangled his chains significantly. Laurence became abruptly aware that the fifty-some prisoners currently taking their exercise on the deck were standing surreptitiously in the background, clearly hoping to lengthen their stay abovedecks.

 

“Mr. Ferrell,” he called to his first mate. “Escort the prisoners below. And unchain Mr. Crowe from—” He went through his mental files on the prisoners. “Mr. Glover, here. I imagine Mr. Orley can examine him better without the manacles.”

 

The crewmen had finished cutting off Glover’s shirt as the guards belatedly remembered their duties. The prisoners were hurried below, and Orley sighed and leaned forward. For a moment his eyes were fixed, staring at the unconscious man’s chest. Beneath his shirt, the prisoner was covered in an angry red rash, the color of it vivid against his pale skin. Orley stood abruptly, rigid as a board, and did not speak.

 

“Your prognosis?” Laurence prompted. Orley turned on his heel.

 

“Throw him overboard,” he said tightly.

 

He would have walked away there, leaving them all gaping, had Laurence not stepped into his path.

 

“You will explain yourself,” he said, angry now. “Mr. Orley, you have just given us some hope that this man was alive. I expect, sir, that by the code of your profession and your honor as a gentlemen, that you will give the prisoner aid if recovery is possible, and comfort until a peaceful end if it is not; such is the duty of Christian men.”

 

“Sir, do not lecture me of the duty of Christian men,” said Orley. “If you wished to save lives on board this ship, you would put the gaol-bird out of his misery and be done. He will not last another night, and only God knows how many he will infect before his body goes.”

 

Laurence had been steadily growing more furious with every word, but now he paused, seeing for the first time that, beneath the sneer, the young doctor was trembling.

 

“Infect,” he repeated only.

 

Orley licked his lips.

 

“Gaol-fever,” he said. “God preserve us.”

 

* * *

 

_Dover_

 

They had already begun to put Temeraire into heavy-combat rig by the time Dayes returned. His captain’s grim expression was at odds with the excitement that Temeraire himself felt; he was putting his heavy combat armor to use for the first time, and his wingtips were twitching irrepressibly. Dayes signaled for all the officers and ground crew to gather before he began to speak.

 

It was news of the worst kind, or so Temeraire understood from the reactions: air transports to carry France’s veterans to British shores, and sixty or more dragons to defend them. The men were very downcast, but Temeraire himself did not quite see what the difficulty was. Even without Mortiferus and Excidium, he was sure that they could roll up the French dragons directly.

 

“We have to hope that you’re right,” said Dayes. “The French will be coming over tomorrow if not today; they nearly caught Rankin over the Channel.”

 

“Rankin?” said Temeraire, his ruff pricking up despite himself. “Then it must have been Levitas that brought the news.”

 

“Yes, and Rankin was injured doing it, too. Temeraire, you are not to bother him, is that understood? He had just made a hero of himself, the damn—but in any case, I have told you already not to interfere.”

 

“But if Rankin is wounded, surely Levitas must also be wounded.” Wounded more greatly, Temeraire was growing convinced; Levitas would never have let Rankin receive even a scratch if he was able to stop it.

 

Dayes paused, looking at him directly.

 

“Our orders are to fit out in heavy-combat rig and make ready for battle,” he said severely. “You are—”

 

The rest of it dwindled into inaudibility. Temeraire was already pushing into the sky, chain-mail slithering down off his sides and landing with a crash on the ground. The shouts of his crew seemed to fade even more quickly than usual as he shot above the tree-tops. He knew the way to Levitas’ clearing by heart, having flown over many times under cover of pre-dawn darkness; it was strange to go so noisily now. But he had to make sure. Levitas was so very small that it felt as if almost anything could harm him, and Temeraire had no faith in his captain to keep him safe. But then again, he was also one of the quickest dragons in Dover—one would have to be nearly as fast as Temeraire to catch him, and surely those French dragons were not so clever as all that.

 

Temeraire was already calling Levitas’ name as the clearing came into view. He put on speed, clearing over the swaying trees—

 

And stopped dead in the air, hovering. At first he was not quite sure what he was seeing. Below him, Levitas was very still and very small. He was wounded, he could see that, but the bandage was far too large. There was blood seeping through on every edge.

 

With a cry Temeraire came straight down, crushing trees below him. He lay down beside Levitas, nose to nose, heedless of the prickly wreckage of the trees. The little dragon gave a great rasping gasp, forcing his eyes open.

 

“Temeraire?” said Levitas weakly.

 

“Yes, I am here,” said Temeraire, low and wretched. “Are you, are you in much pain?”

 

Levitas did not seem to hear the question. “I did well, didn’t I?” His breaths were coming raggedly. “Do you think…my captain…would be proud of me?”

 

“Who could not?” said Temeraire, trying to be brave. “When you have been the very best of dragons—but oh, Levitas! You are so very hurt.” His wings were shivering, something aching deep in his chest, a terrible pressure building and wanting out.

 

“It already hurts less,” said Levitas faintly. His eyes fluttered closed.

 

By the time Dayes and Granby had come hurrying into the little clearing, Temeraire had arranged himself around Levitas so that nothing could disturb him, except for a little wind that came into his face, bringing scents of smoke and heather. Their voices were sharp-edged; Temeraire could tell distantly that they were angry at him, but he was looking at Levitas. The bandages had bled all the way through, now.

 

“It is not him,” he said gently, and watched the hopeful light dwindle out of his eyes.

 

“What is the meaning of this,” continued Dayes, and then coming around the bulk of Temeraire’s head was silent, staring at the bloody wreckage that was Levitas’ side. Temeraire only spared a brief glance for him; it was not his fault that now, when so much was about to be lost, he too wished for another man.

 

“He has no one but me,” said Temeraire. There was a low resonance to his voice, which he did not understand; it made the trees shiver. “Will you—will you go and get his captain?”

 

Dayes paused, his expression pale and transfixed on the dying dragon. He murmured something that Temeraire could not quite make out; Granby hurried away. Dayes turned to him and said quietly,

 

“Temeraire, we will care for him, and see him until—the end—you ought go back and let the harness men armor you. That is where your orders lie.”

 

The words were said earnestly, gently; Temeraire was almost sorry to disoblige.

 

“No, Dayes, I cannot leave. There may be nothing else I can do, but at least I will not let him be abandoned again.” His ruff flattened against his neck with unhappiness, and in a low voice he added— “It will not be so long now, anyway.”

 

Dayes made no more of an effort, but only swallowed hard and looked down at Levitas. Blood was beginning to pool against Temeraire’s side, black upon black. The slow, uneven gasping of the injured dragon marked time for them both.

 

Several endless minutes had gone by before Granby returned, forcing a limping Rankin before him. The man’s face was pale as he entered the clearing, not from shock at what he saw, but rather from his own pain. He gasped as Granby flung him down unceremoniously between Temeraire and Levitas, grasping his wounded leg and, to Temeraire’s rage, looking as though he meant to complain.

 

“Stay silent,” Temeraire said, lowering his head close. Rankin trembled and closed his mouth. To Levitas he said, gently:

 

“Your captain has come, Levitas, look.”

 

“My captain?” he asked, fuzzily. There was blood at the corners of his mouth. Rankin cast a nervous glance at Temeraire’s bared teeth.

 

“Yes, I am here,” he said. He cast another glance at Dayes and Granby, as if for cues. “You did…well.”

 

Temeraire’s ruff rose at the feebleness of the praise, but Levitas did not seem to hear it. “You came,” he said only.

 

The shallow rise and fall of his sides slowed, and stopped.

 

It had not been so long ago that Praecursoris’ traitorous captain had been put to death. He, Temeraire, had been holding the chains that kept the dragon back. He knew that he would remember that scream until his own dying day, as if the dragon’s own heart had been cut out; nothing but pure anguish and grief. Rankin did not say a word.

 

Temeraire had never felt such black rage as this before; it felt as though his chest was expanding with it.

 

“It is done now,” he said savagely. “Levitas is dead. Is this not what you wished for? To be free of him?”

 

Rankin started, scrambling back from his bared teeth, hands and knees slipping in blood.

 

“Dayes, control your beast—!” he cried out, but Temeraire growled over the rest of the words.

 

“Look at me!” he snapped. His words echoed after themselves like thunder in the mountains. Rankin turned very white and very still. “I am no beast, and neither was Levitas. He was my friend, and he—and you—you took him from me.”

 

He could hold it in no longer; he turned to the sky and roared, his voice breaking open and spilling everything out. It was as loud as his anger, as all-encompassing as his grief. It shattered the clouds. He roared until there was no breath left in him, but his anger had not yet begun to run out. He turned his attention back on the ground.

 

All three of the men had fallen to their knees, their hands covering their ears. Ranklin was crawling blindly through blood to get away. Temeraire slammed a claw down before him and he started, flinching back like an animal. Curling his head down to the ground, he inspected Rankin closely out of one eye.

 

The man was trembling. Blood had splattered the shining golden hair that Levitas had always admired so much. He did not look so fine now, but under Temeraire’s gaze Rankin regained himself slightly, lifting his chin to curl his lip. A coward he was not, although Temeraire despised to give him even so much credit. He wanted very much to kill him, and at the thought Temeraire could not resist bringing his claw up, poised to strike. It would be right, it would be fitting—

 

But Laurence would not have liked it—

 

The thought came into his mind unbidden, but it would not leave him. Laurence would not like it, would never take him back—

 

He drew back his claw and turned away. Dayes and Granby came forward, their faces full of relief.

 

“Temeraire, thank God,” called Dayes, stumbling to his muzzle. “What possessed you?” Not waiting for an answer, he turned to Granby. “John, you go back with Temeraire and calm the men. I don’t think there’s any point in getting the armor on tonight, with this wind.”

 

“What of you?” asked Granby. He was shaken and pale beneath his freckles.

 

“I must go to Lenton,” said Dayes. He nodded at Rankin, now thoroughly covered in Levitas’ blood. “He will want to know the outcome of this mess. And Temeraire—” His face turned hard. “We will speak of this later.”

 

Temeraire did not reply. Silently, Granby climbed into the bloodstained cage of his talons, and they winged away. From above, Levitas was a small, still form. The bandage had darkened into invisibility against his dark purple hide, and his muzzle was curled into the shining pool of blood that spread out around him. He could almost have been floating peacefully, eyes closed, on the surface of a lake in happier times.

 

No one approached him as he hovered down to his clearing. Granby went among the men, saying a quiet word here and there, and gradually they dispersed. Temeraire curled deeply within himself, staring at nothing.

 

“Get some sleep, will you?” Granby stood by his head. Even Temeraire could hear the forced determination in his voice. “I am sure it will all seem better in the morning.”

 

“Yes,” said Temeraire tonelessly. There was to be a battle tomorrow, after all, if the wind should change; he could lose himself for a while in the simple business of fighting or dying. “But perhaps the French will get the better of me, after all—”

 

“No!” said Granby sharply. Then, mastering himself, he continued in a more gentle tone. “No. That will not happen. I know we were rather hopeless before, but—Temeraire—did you always know you could roar like that?”

 

“My roar?” Temeraire repeated. The question seemed interesting, in a distant sort of way, but he could not make sense of it.

 

“There was a tree top in your path, Temeraire, when you roared. I saw it shatter into splinters. We both did. The French will have no way of stopping us.” Granby’s face was shining with elation. Temeraire felt stupid and slow, staring at him. After a moment he flattened his ruff and turned away.

 

“What does it matter?” he asked bitterly. “Whether we stop the French now, or later, or never. It would not bring back Levitas. It would not give him a better captain, or a better life.” _Or me_ , he added quietly, in the privacy of his own head. Granby was silent a moment, the momentary joy draining out of his face.

 

“Temeraire,” he said softly, after looking about that no one else should hear. “I know you are unhappy, but it isn’t like poor Levitas at all. Dayes is a good fellow, and he would do anything in the world for you.”

 

“Oh,” said Temeraire, but he could not very well deny what had been going through his mind. “But that is alright, anyway; I know that Dayes at least wants me.” He was silent again. It did not seem strange to him that Levitas should only have wanted Rankin in the end, when after all he wished for Laurence all—all the time.

 

He keened softly and put his head down on his foreclaws. Granby put a hesitant hand on his muzzle, and together they waited for the wind to change.

 

* * *

 

_Atlantic Ocean_

 

In the morning they set the corpses over the side, shrouded mostly in the rags they had died in. Laurence read aloud from the Lord’s Prayer; the parson had died a week ago, two days after the prison superintendent, and five days after the doctor had slit open his wrists.

 

Even as he bitterly regretted the lack of a surgeon on board, Laurence could not bring himself to mourn the man’s death. He had used the money he had been given to buy medicines to line his own pockets, and preferred to sit at his leisure rather than undertake the regular inspections of the ship’s gaol. Everything might have been prevented, had he only done his duty.

 

The last of the bodies went tumbling into the sea, prisoners and sailors alike pulled down beneath the waves. Laurence took weary stock of the ones left standing. The wind was a fitful thing that morning, blowing one way and then the other; the bare score of sailors who were fit to work would be run to rags hauling sail to catch these loose scraps of wind. But Laurence did not see what choice he had: everything depended on reaching land, blessed land, where they could secure rest and medicine.

 

The rest of the morning was spent in alternation; an hour on deck, grasping desperately at what wind chose to blow, and an hour in the orlop, wading through human misery. It was no blessing that gaol-fever made its victims, in its worse cases, silent and staring. Laurence would rather have heard them screaming in agony every night if he could have hope of their survival. Instead a low sighing seemed to follow him down the rows as he changed out the fever-cloths for fresh; men deep in their delirium mumbling for lost loves or treasure, and every one of them stamped with a vivid red rash.

 

Laurence paused beside a prisoner, fumbling as his tired fingers took the cloth off the man’s forehead. The face was familiar to him, and after a moment his sluggish mind put together a name: John Crowe. He bore very little resemblance to the man he had pulled out of the water, who was so full of desperate determination to live. Now his face was slack, eyes staring up into a light that Laurence could not see.

 

He reached for a fresh cloth and came up with an empty hand. Silently, a dark-haired woman hurried to him and pressed a new bucket into his hands. He nodded thanks to her as she went by. She acknowledged him with a glance, darkly golden eyes flashing towards his own and then away again, before she disappeared into what had been the surgeon’s cabin.

 

Laurence had released the remaining women to administer aid to the sick, over his own objections and those of the remaining guards. The female prisoners were coming through the fever better than the men, by a margin—of 38 women on board, fifteen were fit to walk. Laurence trusted them near as little as he did the men, and disliked exposing women to the sight of such suffering, but with no surgeon, no parson, and every fit sailor desperately needed to make sail, there was need for them in the orlop. He was now sure that they were saving lives, or at least delaying the end; whether that would be enough to see them to shore was another question.

 

His thoughts thus grimly occupied, he laid a cool cloth on Crowe’s forehead; he noticed for the first time that there was a faint memory of a scar there. His fingers brushed over it as he resettled the cloth. When Laurence next looked down, it was to find that Crowe was staring at him, for the first time in three days, with every evidence of recognition.

 

“Mr. Crowe?” he called aloud, but the moment of lucidity was fleeting. In the next moment the fever had reclaimed him, and Crowe’s eyes drifted past Laurence into some unknowable dream.

 

The upper deck was no relief after the close darkness of the orlop. There was no wind at present, and an abnormally bright sun, blazing away in a white sky. Laurence looked up at it, breathing deep, and felt a familiar dread creeping in. They should have reached the trade winds by now. He would have knelt before the devil himself for a fair wind to even a notorious slave port like Rio.

 

He turned and nearly knocked over his first mate, who had been hovering behind his shoulder.

 

“Steady on, there. Anything to report?”

 

“No report, sir,” said Ferrell, turning a deep shade of red. “Save that everything is ship-shape on deck, and you might feel free to go below if you like, anytime.”

 

The forwardness of the remark, out of a man normally so stolid, made him stare, and then abruptly he felt hot, burning hot, all over.

 

“I am afraid I do not care to leave the deck, Mr. Ferrell,” said Laurence. “And I do not think much of the suggestion.”

 

The man flinched at the tone of his voice, but did not step back.

 

“Then, sir, if you permit me, I would like to stay close to you while you are on deck.”

 

“Mr. Ferrell, what in God’s name are you getting at?”

 

“Sir,” said Ferrell, low. “Some of the men have been talking amongst themselves, and—”

 

“Are you suggesting that there is mutiny on my ship?” It was hard to hear his own words, as if they were speaking underwater. He felt nauseated, sick.

 

“No! No, only talk—”

 

“Talk of what?”

 

Ferrell looked down. “They say that if you had never saved that drowning prisoner, or thrown him back into the sea like the doctor said to do, that the ship would not have gotten sick. That you invited bad luck.”

 

Laurence felt gorge rising in his throat. “Half the convicts were already sick by the time we knew,” he managed. He remembered the tour he had taken of the gaol-hold, after Orley had made his diagnosis, and the rank smell of fever and misery that had risen up to meet him. It had smelled almost exactly like a slave ship.

 

“But the men are frightened of the fever, and superstitious. And-and the guards don’t trust you. They say you care too much for the convicts. Will you not stay below?” Ferrell entreated. “I don’t think they’d try anything if they didn’t see you—”

 

“I will deliver aid to the French before I cower in fear from my own men,” Laurence snapped, fighting back nausea. “Mr. Ferrell, your concerns are noted, but I can handle—” a wave of dizziness struck him. “More than able…”

 

“Sir? Sir! You don’t look well. You ought go below…”

 

“No,” said Laurence, meaninglessly. His knees hit the deck, and darkness filled his vision; an unbroken black like the underside of a sheltering wing. He slept.

 

He grasped at consciousness in brief snatches, like a man lost overboard in a storm, his head bobbing up briefly above the waves, only to be pulled under again. He sank into dreams of dark oceans. Occasionally a voice rose and battered at his mind, but he did not stir. There was a great noise, a storm at his door, that called his name and raged for three days and nights. But black wings circled around him, and he was safe.

 

He did not wake so much as gradually become aware that the wind was changing, in the way of a man raised on ship since the age of twelve. He opened his eyes.

 

The orlop was as empty as he had seen it in weeks, with only a few men in the airiest corner still staring slack-jawed at the ceiling. Forcing himself upright on shaking arms, he experimentally tested his weight on his legs. He felt as weak as a newborn lamb, and realized grimly that he must have spent several days asleep. He took one step, and then another, and fell. Straining every muscle, he slowly regained his feet. With each inching step towards the door he felt stronger. It swung open before he was halfway across the room, however, and standing on the other side was John Crowe.

 

He was wearing a sword and a pistol. With an unpleasant shock Laurence recognized his own weaponry.

 

“Mr. Crowe,” he said evenly, taking another step forward, and another.

 

“You have good timing,” said Crowe. He spoke with a small hint of an accent. “I was just about to wake you. We cannot seem to agree without you.”

 

“Agree on what?” asked Laurence warily. He took another step forward.

 

“On what to do next, Captain. You slept through a mutiny. Did you know that?”

 

Laurence said nothing.

 

“They were trying to kill you while you burned of fever. There was a struggle at this very door, sailor against sailor and guard against prisoner. But victory hasn’t improved our lot much. That’s why—”

 

Another two steps and Laurence was upon him, bringing the slightly smaller man down. They struggled wildly on the floor, grappling for better position. Crowe was coiled with lithe muscle, and Laurence had only just recently woken from his sick bed; he could already feel his strength draining. His back slammed against the floor, Crowe’s frowning face appearing before him. Laurence jerked upward quickly and rammed his forehead into the convict’s nose.

 

He was rewarded by a satisfying crack. Rolling free, he seized the pistol from the convict’s belt and came up with it leveled at Crowe, who was pressing his hand to his nose with an irritated expression on his face.

 

“I am not lying,” said Crowe, his voice somewhat muffled. “The convicts—we fought on your side.”

 

“I should better believe that you had become honest men.”

 

“Should we have become honest men by dying of fever? Or under a yoke in New South Wales?” He untied the sword from his belt and tossed it at Laurence. “Go to the deck, and you will find that I am not lying.”

 

Laurence caught the sword in his left hand, automatically, but he paused. “Then you will tell me, if you are telling the truth, what I will find on deck. You say you won. What have you done with the mutineers?”

 

“You’re asking after them?” answered Crowe with incredulity. “They are the least of your problems. The convicts and your loyal sailors cannot come to any agreement. They want us stuffed back in the hold, even now after they’ve won their ship for them. But I do not care to be a prisoner in any ship, or owned by any man, again.”

 

Laurence was silent as he followed Crowe up to the deck. Above he could hear a fierce argument storming, about to erupt into blows from the sound of it. Any honest man would have to admit that even the best of ordinary sailors were little removed from convicts except as a matter of luck and circumstance; yet those circumstances changed everything about their fate in life. It was his duty to transport these prisoners to New South Wales, as justice and his King demanded; to see them all, even the women and the children, handed over in chains to some lash-happy overseer and never to see home and England again; all this was necessary to satisfy duty.

 

Yet Laurence found now, contemplating the thought, that the taste of it felt bitter in his mouth. For duty he had harnessed Temeraire, and raised him from the egg, and lost him forever into the hands of a stranger. For duty he had known flight, and given it up again, and yet dreamed of it still; he was sick of duty. He drew a deep breath, making his decision, and stepped out onto the deck.

 

* * *

 

They came across the first body in the water just shortly after sunrise. The sharks had already found her, so that at first she was only a red patch in the water, and then, as they came closer, a mere collection of parts. Her face was whole, or nearly so: thin from starvation, yet her high cheeks and closed eyes in death were almost serene. Her hair spread out in the water like a crown. High in the rigging, Mary Carver, her dark hair streaming wild in the wind, sighted a sail on the horizon.

 

They gave chase for the rest of the day, in wordless agreement. More than half the crew now were completely inexperienced lubbers, but a ship with a full spread of sail, and the trade winds behind her, could not fail to make speed. Other bodies bobbed up in their path like fallen leaves on a path; they represented, he knew, less than a twentieth of their brethren below the waters. Only those that had escaped or slipped through their chains would have even appeared on the surface. The rest lay sunk, nameless and unknown, at the bottom of the blood-dark sea.

 

By sundown they were upon them. _Mary Marie_ was written upon the side of the slaving ship, the men onboard ignorant of anything in their trail save for the usual sharks.

 

Laurence’s hands clenched.

 

“What shall we do, sir?” asked Crowe.

 

His heart had pounding fiercely in his mouth, as if in anticipation of blood. There would truly be nothing to go back to after this, he knew. He was only glad that his family had already disowned him. The only other part of his life that had truly mattered was already in the hands of another man. His voice was calm, steady.

 

“Fire.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Backstory, part two. We're back to present with the next chapter.

_1806, Lobito Point_

 

“You do not have to come,” said his second, in a low voice.

 

Laurence buckled on his sword more securely and looked up. John Crowe—Mosegi, as he was called now—was watching him carefully for the answer. They and a small company of sailors were standing on an astonishing white beach, which gave way almost directly into the thick green jungle. It was perhaps the most perfect natural harbor Laurence had ever discovered, with water coming in ten fathoms deep nearly all the way to the shore and a narrow sandspit concealing the mouth of the harbor from practically every angle. An enemy ship—and he had many of those, now—might sail by only a few miles away and never spot them; not before Mary Carver and her sharp eyes spotted them first. He wished he was in a better mood to marvel at it.

 

“I thank you for the concern,” said Laurence. “If there is such a place as they describe, however, where they are safe from slavers, I must see it for myself.” He hesitated, and added, “And if you choose to stay, Mosegi, one of us must lead the return party.”

 

Mosegi blew air between his teeth and smiled. “I do not think you should worry on that front, my friend. I cannot leave this work unfinished.”

 

Laurence only nodded in reply to this. He had expected no different an answer, and had indeed hoped for it, despite how his conscience berated him. Keeping their impossible venture together without the man he had grown to rely on was hard to imagine. It was not only sailors and convicts now who made up their crew; escaped and freed slaves joined them frequently, when they had no homeland to return to. And then, too, there were the abolitionists. Somehow a group in Boston harbor had heard a rumor of the fleet, and rather more astonishingly, sailed across an ocean to find them on the mere strength of that rumor. They had come armed with the fervor of their determination and very little else, but their ships were of some new American make, sleek and absurdly fast.

 

Others had joined them for less lofty reasons. Deserters and mutineers from all different navies came, chasing after a less disciplined life and the hope of unexpected riches. Laurence was glad to have all the experienced sailors he could get, but he was always careful to put a loyal man above them, and to spread them out among his ships as much as he could. They were men who cared very little of slavery, at least at the start, and would not have been above targeting richer prey if left to their own devices. And, of course, the sailors had heard that there were women aboard.

 

The women were an unending piece of worry to his mind. A number of the surviving convict women had sought further passage to Australia after all, there to meet husbands already transported and waiting for them; Laurence had been more than happy to provide them with funds for passage. Transportation was not, in all honesty, the life he would have chosen for any woman; but still further down the list was the life of a pirate, and he could not condone subjecting even the toughest of women to it. Most of the convict women had stubbornly remained, however, and as the alternative was to set them against their will down on a foreign shore, Laurence had grown resigned to their presence.

 

That had been when there had been no more than a dozen women. To his dismay, however, the cohort of women only grew. They seemed to join them in ones and twos from every port, leaving ill-chosen husbands or the prospect of one, until he had nearly five dozen of them on board, none of whom seemed to give much thought for either their virtue or reputation.

 

Finally at a loss for what to do, Laurence had sequestered the women of the crew onto a ship of their own, with Carver to act as captain. By virtue of the size of the crew, it was only a corvette; Laurence meant it for light scouting, although he was privately and rather despondently certain that Carver had a loose interpretation of those orders. She had taken to naval life with an alarming zeal, and seldom appeared without an array of weapons at hand.

 

As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, a dark head turned on the deck of the _Lionness_. Even at a distance Laurence could make out the disgruntled expression on her face. Carver was chafing at having to take orders from Topmast Tom in his absence, he was sure, but none of the other captains would have borne a woman in charge of the fleet. At the very least, Topmast was reliable, if stolid. He would not cause any trouble. Laurence was less certain of Mary Carver.

 

Mosegi nudged Laurence with his shoulder. “She wants to impress you,” he remarked. “You ought give her a chance to.”

 

Laurence frowned. “I need no impressing beyond the simple act of acting according to one’s duty,” he said. “In any case, if I was not suitably impressed already, I would never have put her in command of a ship.”

 

Snorting and muttering something to himself in his own language, Mosegi shook his head and strode away. Laurence had grown accustomed to the abrupt way that Mosegi could leave a conversation, so he took no offense; he merely followed his direction with his eyes. Nearby on the beach, a group of perhaps eighty former captives were wobbling along the sand as they regained their land legs. It was a successful endeavor, in comparison; when they had first been freed from the cramped hold they had been kept in, and the chains torn off that had bound them foot to foot and neck to neck, it had taken them days to relearn how to walk again at all.

 

Mosegi was speaking with one of them now, the sounds soft and encouraging even in a foreign tongue. The girl’s answering laugh struck a chord of wonder within Laurence; astonishing that laughter and happiness should have withstood the horrors of that hold. Mosegi had been in that hold as well, had stood ankle-deep in that nameless liquid and had to throw away his boots after; had choked back bile alongside Laurence as they worked to cut away the dead from the living and bring the living up into the light; had looked into their faces and heard some of their speech and realized, slowly, that these were his countrymen. And yet he was laughing too, chuckling back at the girl and bantering in their language.

 

Laurence had to look away from it. A moment later Mosegi came back to his side.

 

“They are ready to go. Are we?”

 

“Lead on,” said Laurence, fixing his sights on the unfriendly green darkness of the jungle. “I only hope it is not far.”

 

“We will only need to get closer, they say. The guardian of their village will be looking for them.”

 

Laurence shook his hand. “One man, however powerful, cannot search these jungles by himself—”

 

“He’s not a man.” Mosegi had a distant look on his face. His lips moved as if trying to recall a forgotten song. “They’re not men, I mean. I—there is something I can’t quite remember. But I was no more than a child; the only reason I know my own language is because they did not sell me away from my mother—”

 

He cut himself off, abruptly. “They have faith in their ancestors,” he said, as the jungle reached out and enveloped them both. Behind them came the eager footsteps of free Tswana. “We must have some of the same.”

 

* * *

 

_London_

 

“I will not go,” said Temeraire wildly; if he left England, if he disappeared to China, how would Laurence ever find him again—

 

It was a wild passing thought, and he shook it away like an irritating fly. “And what of all my friends, and my captain? I will not leave them, I will not.”

 

The officer before him—Temeraire had not bothered to learn his name—reddened, but only with ordinary anger, he had not guessed the direction of Temeraire’s thoughts.

 

“You damn well will go,” he bellowed up, and Temeraire’s claw twitched as he heroically repressed the urge to squash him. “These are your orders, disobeying them is mutiny, you serpent-spawn! Neither you nor your infernal captain will see advancement again—”

 

“Dayes does not care for such a thing,” said Temeraire stormily. “And you will let me see him at once, you _will_ , or I will—”

 

“Do that and you will certainly never see your _Dayes_ again,” said the officer, after sputtering unsuccessfully for several moments. He jammed the hat back on his head and turned out of the covert without another word.

 

Temeraire paced, still rigid with anger; it would have felt a great deal better to fly, but that might be interpreted as trying to escape, and they had Dayes. He must be very, very careful, at all times, but that was difficult when they would insist on being so very unpleasant.

 

He had worn a small groove in his clearing with all his worry, and knocked over a few trees, until after a week the caretaker of the grounds had come and spoken to him, not without sympathy, on the difficulty of keeping the covert well-run in his old age. The old man was kind enough to pass on messages from Dayes, whenever they should come, and so Temeraire strictly abjured himself from making more trouble for him. But that mostly left him able only to curl into himself on the dusty ground, and furrow his talons, and lash his tail in anxious thought.

 

The couriers, at least, were all very kind. They came frequently, carrying messages, and often made a point to visit him when their duties allowed. Most of them were Winchesters, and nearly all of them had known or known of Levitas; they seemed to regard him as a friend to courier-beasts, or perhaps a very large honorary Winchester. In any case, their gossip and news was distracting, for which Temeraire was deeply grateful, and it was comforting to have their small bodies curled on top of his back at night.

 

So weeks passed in this manner, until one day he had finally seen the Chinese embassy, the source behind all this trouble, and finally, truly, lost his temper.

 

Afterwards he could not be sorry that he had carried Dayes away off to Dover, although when he paused to think about it, he was sorry that he had not killed any of the ones trying to stop him. He had almost lost another captain: the thought chilled him. They had tried to take him away again after the battle, and this time he _was_ prepared to kill them, he would have, if only Keynes had not intervened.

 

Then the fever of battle cooled, and he passed the next day anxiously waiting in his clearing for news of Dayes. He had done it again—not been a proper dragon, not acted as he should, and now they were going to take another captain away from him and make him be alone. Or perhaps they would give him over to a Chinese captain, and he would have to start again, alone—quite alone—

 

He sprang to his feet as Granby entered the clearing.

 

“No need for worry,” he said, before Temeraire could say anything. “Dayes sent me. He’s all laid up in bed, poor fellow, but they’ve come to an agreement. We’re to go China with you; him and the entire crew. Suppose the Admiralty couldn’t send us packing soon enough, and us having just won two great battles for them—” Granby shook his head, muttering some more imprecations, but Temeraire could only feel a great deal of relief. He sagged down on the ground, boneless with sudden giddiness. He would get to keep his captain and his crew; all would be well.

 

“I suppose China will be very grand,” said Temeraire, picking up some enthusiasm. “Although I will miss all our friends, and the fighting.” He sighed. “But perhaps there will be fighting in China?”

 

Granby laughed. “We’ll have to hope not. I suppose that China’s aerial legions are no joke, if the government is making such a discredit of itself.”

 

They would be travelling by sea, apparently—“takes us an entire continent out of the way, but nothing for it,” said Granby, shrugging—and a ship was already on its way to port, being made ready for them. Now that Temeraire was certain that Dayes was going to be fine, the only issue was a small matter of the ship’s captain, which Temeraire thought should be an easy enough thing to arrange. He had only been on one, but his understanding was that dragon transports were quite grand, and any sailor should surely be glad to take its helm, as they were undoubtedly the heavy-weights of the navy.

 

“Not at all,” said Granby, surprised. “You should hear how the sailors on them talk—or no, you shouldn’t,” he added hastily, “but it will be a job to have a reliable fellow who would take a transport, anyhow; I suppose any captain that would let himself be chained to one must be one of those dull Navy clodpoles.”

 

And then he stopped himself, going very still, but Temeraire took barely any notice. “Oh! That is easy. I happen to have several fine naval officers of my acquaintance,” _several_ being an exaggeration, of course, but it never hurt to puff up one’s influence, “and I happen to know that Captain Riley, who fed me a very fine tunny on my fourth day, is cast ashore.”

 

This piece of knowledge had come to him from reading the newspapers, or rather having Granby read them for him, as Dayes was not much for reading, and it would of course be unconscionable to ask his captain to do something he did not enjoy. Granby’s voice was very pleasant to listen to, lower-pitched and somewhat reminiscent of—in any case, Riley had apparently been in a fine sea-battle, and had his ship quite wrecked afterwards. Temeraire thought wistfully that if only he were still small enough to fit on the _Reliant_ , he would have been useful indeed in the fighting.

 

With a sigh he turned away from those thoughts. “Well?” he asked expectantly. “Will you take down a letter for me?”

 

Granby was still silent, frozen. “Perhaps I better not,” he said finally, in a low voice.

 

“Why, Granby,” said Temeraire, very much surprised now.

 

“I don’t mean to imply anything,” said Granby, hot color in his face, “but I ought to be frank with you. You must know that Dayes hates anything to do with sea-officers, particularly ones that you have occasion to know.”

 

Temeraire paused at that.

 

“Well, yes,” he said, looking around quickly to see that they were not being overheard. “But that is why I am asking _you_. I do not mind how Dayes feels, at all, but of course there’s no real basis for it, and no reason why we cannot have a dependable fellow in charge of the ship. Nothing would be more tiresome than to have only some bore to keep us company, the entire long way to China. I can see no wrong in it as long as, perhaps, you did not mention it to Dayes—not that I am keeping it secret!” he clarified earnestly. “But he might get the wrong idea about it all, and I would not want his feelings to be hurt.”

 

Granby was silent and hunched, while Temeraire peered over his shoulders in some concern. Finally he shook his head.

 

“I suppose you are right,” he said, the words dragging unhappily, while Temeraire tried not to thump the ground excitedly with his tail. “I will run and get paper, then.”

 

The note was arranged, eventually, to his satisfaction; Temeraire drawing from half-remembered snippets of letters that Laurence had read aloud to him, very long ago now. He was confident that it could not fail but to persuade Riley, who after all had always been perfectly sensible to him. And it stood to reason that Riley might have news of Laurence, if the subject were to naturally come up in the course of a long sea-journey; it was not as though he were taking an unusual interest in the subject, but it could not be considered wonderful to have no objection to news of an old acquaintance, if it should happen to be offered.

 

And so Temeraire contrived to convince himself, and that night went contentedly and easily to sleep; he dreamed of the salt spray in his face, and the easy rolling motion of the sea. There was a man standing by him, and his voice was calm and deep, but Temeraire could have not named him.

 

* * *

 

_Mosi-oa-Tunya_

 

Even if they could not quite decide whether he was an honored guest or a prisoner, Laurence was grateful for the view. There was extraordinary peace to be had in watching the living plume of the smoke-that-thunders, like the breath of some great whale, breaching above the earth, and the many dragons that flew above it like birds. The mist cast many shifting rainbows in the air, and Laurence watched them until exhaustion overcame him, and his eyes drew down into slits. He woke again sometime during sunset, and saw the sky aglow in luxurious pinks and oranges; the world was as warmly golden as if painted with honey. He breathed deep of the sight. He had already prayed, and felt rested; Laurence did not truly believe that they would execute him tomorrow, but he had made his peace nonetheless. He drifted off again, and dreamt that mighty black wings were carrying him heavenward.

 

The next morning they brought him a breakfast of a thick sorghum porridge, sweetened with a little milk; Laurence ate every bite, ignoring the unfamiliar texture. He was aware of the two powerfully built guards that were waiting at his door, both of them taller than him by a head and broad-shouldered. The beckoned, when he had finished; an unlikely gesture from an executioner, unless they were uncommonly courteous. Laurence cast a glance down to his clothes, still somewhat travel stained from the jungle despite his best efforts, and followed them willingly out into the hallway.

 

 _Hallway_ was something of an inaccuracy, as the ceiling was thirty feet high at the least, and the width would have been sufficient to sail a ship through. It was dwarfed, for all that, by the main hall of the palace itself, grander by far than any cathedral he had heard of. He had been to the Vatican once as a boy; the great basilica of St. Peter would have been comparable in opulence, if perhaps it could host two dozen heavyweight dragons and was twenty times the size.

 

His crew, he was glad to see, looked none the worse for wear, albeit somewhat surly. Mosegi stood at their head, speaking to the young man that Laurence had assumed, last night, to be their king; his second-in-command had been loaded down with jewelry, and his many golden arm-rings flashed in the light as he made his case. The king raised a hand, and reluctantly Mosegi was silent.

 

The two guards by him shoved him forward, not ungently, but certainly as if they thought that he would now remember to be afraid. Laurence shook off their hands and strode forward under the gaze of the coiled, watchful dragons. One of them, he saw now, was Dikeledi, who was still blissfully wrapped around her restored tribespeople. They, too, had been festooned with riches until they fairly glittered, and richly colored and embroidered fabrics hung over the sunken frames of their bodies. They looked as if they had gained some weight already, with a healthy glow in their faces, and some of the younger were clinging to Dikeledi’s spikes and horns.

 

Laurence tore his eyes away from them, looking into the king’s face, and made a formal leg. The young man was studying him as he rose, his eyes over high cheekbones dark and contemplative and revealing nothing. He gestured to Mosegi to translate and began to speak in a calm, measured voice; Mosegi threw a glance at Laurence.

 

“Laurence, this is their prince, Moshueshue,” said Mosegi hurriedly. “So you will not do anything reckless, will you? He says—we have heard the testimony of our kinsman, you have restored eighty of the ones we have lost, that we had not hoped of seeing again; he goes on in this vein, and now he says, you have done this with your band of fighters—” this last was accompanied by a general doubtful glance at the crew, for which Laurence could not entirely cast blame, as they were in truth a ragged crowd. “This is unlooked for, from a European. Tell me, can others of your nation also be turned to this purpose? If you have done this looking for rewards or riches—” Here Mosegi broke off his translation and began to passionately dispute the point with the prince, who listened, frowning. He again put up his hand.

 

“Your second, who is of our people, tells me that you have not done this seeking riches. Is that true?”

 

“Your highness, it is,” said Laurence. “The reward I seek is no earthly one, sir, and we have freed many slaves without seeing a pence in return, save for what we take from the slavers themselves.”

 

The dragons of the Tswana clearly did not believe this for an instant, and set up a great squabbling, which Mosegi did not bother to translate, but only added his own voice to. Dikeledi’s voice, too, could be heard clear over the noise. He would have dearly liked to ask Mosegi to explain what was happening, but soon enough the young man on the throne raised his hand again.

 

“My father the king will hatch soon,” he said, much to Laurence’s confusion. “When he does, we will go to war against the slave-takers, the Lunda. We will then go to war with the slavers themselves: to reclaim our stolen kinsmen, and take back what has been lost to us. But for that, we need more knowledge of the enemy.”

 

The prince leaned forward, the muscles bunching and coiling beneath his skin; no pampered regent he. “You, I think, can provide this information to us. We desire targets. What are your ports? Who among your tribe is part of this trade, and where are they located? We know that this Europe of yours is north over the sea. Is this where our kinsmen will be found?”

 

“Sir,” said Laurence slowly. “I can only give you some of what you seek.” The ports he could give freely; certainly he had a better knowledge of every slave port and secret harbor, mapped and unmapped, than any man alive, and like any sailor he could name off slave ports by the dozen in Brazil and Jamaica and Georgia. Yet the slavers and slave-owners belonged to not one nation, but many, and were far too many and widely dispersed to be so persecuted. Laurence was not surprised to see that this answer was not received well amongst the Tswana, and there were many angry remarks that Mosegi did not translate. But the prince looked thoughtful.

 

“You are a sailor then, and have a ship of your own?”

 

“Many ships, your highness,” said Laurence, a little surprised. “We take any slave ships that we capture into our service, and there are some who have donated their own ships to our cause.”

 

Moshueshue nodded. “We are not content to simply end the slave trade,” he said, as if it were only a matter of fact that they _would_ end the slave trade, and soon, when his father and Wilberforce had been fighting for over twenty years to implement the most incremental of changes. “I am already calling the tribes together in anticipation of my father’s hatching. The elders will want their children returned to them from across the sea; now that so many of Dikeledi’s tribe have been restored to her, they will not accept the permanent loss of the others.” He locked eyes with Laurence. His eyes were a warm honey-brown, not at all suited for the cold, intent expression they contained. “The ancestors must find a way to get to Brazil, and Jamaica, and Georgia, and all the places you have mentioned. They must take back their children from those that have stolen them away. Are you willing to serve our cause, William Laurence?”

 

He was about to pledge his service to a foreign throne. The thought passed through his mind briefly, inspiring only a dull interest, and he said,

 

“I have already been serving it, your highness, and will continue to do so.”

 

“Good.” Moshueshue stood to his full, imposing height. “Then you will capture and bring us ships great enough to bring our ancestors across the waters, you will bring them to their lost children in those lands, you will attack our enemy and the lands of our enemy; you will do these things and so restore the dishonor of your tribespeople. Such is our will.”

 

A thousand thoughts flashed through his mind at once. Only one formed clearly enough to linger: _this is treason_.

 

Laurence knew what the prince’s will would entail. Only two nations had dragon transports in enough quantity to supply the Tswana with all that they would need, and capturing only those of the French was a logistical impossibility. He and his men would be required to board and capture dragon transports of the British as well as the French. It was treason, when before he had been a mere pirate, disrupting the slave trade here and there, his only victims the worldly profits on private citizens. This was law-breaking on an entirely different scale, to help a foreign power go to war against one of the very roots of the British Empire, to arm himself against loyal sailors of His Majesty’s service, a refutation of every vow he had ever sworn.

 

Yet his tongue would not shape the refusal. Two days ago they had been in the dark jungle, sending up flares to attract the attention of the ancestors; Dikeledi’s shadow had come crossing over their heads, and then she had crashed down among them, tearing apart trees and vines in her frenzy to be reunited with her people. She was only a middle-weight, but her silhouette against the sun had loomed very large, and for a moment of madness Laurence had thought—had believed—that it was Temeraire.

 

He could not say no.

  

* * *

 

_The English Channel_

 

Temeraire woke abruptly in the dark, unsure of what had roused him; a sound, he thought, but there was nothing to hear but the low voice of the wind, and the susurrating waves in their unbroken rhythm. Uneasily he settled again, but he could not rest. It was too quiet on the deck, he realized suddenly; there was none of the normal noise of deckhands snoring or muttering or tossing, and as he stretched his gaze into the moonless night, past the small glowing pools of the ship’s lanterns, he could see darker shadows against the night, moving as stealthily as thieves.

 

“Boarders!” he roared at once. “’Ware boarders!”

 

The boy sleeping in the rigging started awake and took up the call in a piping voice. One of the shadowy boarders climbed up after him and clubbed him into unconsciousness, but by then the entire ship was awake. The door to the cabin beneath the poop deck opened, a Chinese servant peeking his head out; one of the boarders turned to him, flashing a long and curving sword, and the door promptly closed once more. The men sleeping on the deck had been neatly trussed and gagged, Temeraire saw now, but there was a heavy hammering at the aft ladderway, where heavy full water-barrels were held down by a dozen strong men.

 

Temeraire roared again, this time in rage, and lunged across the deck; Dayes was below. A swipe of his claw was sufficient to tear through the men crowding the ladderway, and then the men of the Allegiance came boiling out. Everywhere on the deck was noise and confusion, men heaving against each other by the madly swinging lights of the ship lanterns. Temeraire’s claw came down again and again, sweeping boarders overboard, but still they came swarming over the sides. He dared not roar, the deck was too crowded; and where was Dayes? Where was his captain?

 

Cannons went off, astonishingly loud and close; Temeraire could see the muzzle-flashes nearby in the night as the guns spoke. Beneath him the ship shuddered, men on both sides knocked clean off their feet. Someone was bellowing orders, in a voice nearly louder than the cannons—Riley, he thought—and then there was another rolling broadside, a fearsome showing of thunder and smoke. A sudden red light burst over the scene; boarders and defenders alike cringed from it, but it was neither a bomb nor a weapon. One of the cannonballs had gone through the great stern cabin, and must have struck a chest of Chinese fireworks; they exploded wildly into the air one after another, and the red burst of light was followed by white and yellow and green in dizzying array. The ocean was lit as if by a full moon: a mad, chiaroscuric moon, but Temeraire could clearly see the seventy-two gun ship not a hundred yards away, a flurry of small boats streaming through the water towards the Allegiance, and a fleet of at least two dozen ships coming on behind. All their sails were black.

 

Around him a moan of fear rose as if from a single voice, even the officers struck dumb momentarily. Then the enemy’s guns spoke again, carrying away spars and rigging; their refire time had been less than a minute, which Temeraire’s own riflemen could sometimes not manage.

 

Sailors were still pouring out onto the upper deck, locked in furious struggle with the boarders. Now that the ship was awake, the Allegiance had finally the advantage of numbers, and some of the men had even managed to fight their way to the guns, and were working clumsily to point them towards the enemy ship. With a tremendous burst of relief, Temeraire saw Dayes through the havoc and reached out with a forehand to sweep him up.

 

“Into the air, Temeraire, at once!” cried Dayes, once he was secured on his back, and Temeraire was happy to obey. He swiveled at once for the attacking ship, but Dayes pulled tightly at the harness straps.

 

“Back to Dover, Temeraire,” he shouted, to Temeraire’s appall. “We must go to safety.”

 

“But to just leave—!” he protested, but the tone in Dayes voice was urgent. Reluctantly he turned for shore. The sound of the battle carried after them across the water, tantalizing; his wingbeats began to slow.

 

“I am sure I could have rolled those ships up with my roar,” he said heavily. “But instead we are leaving all of those poor sailors behind—and Granby!” he added suddenly as he remembered, and stopped hovering in midair. “We have left Granby!”

 

Dayes grimly said, “We must leave him, Temeraire; he would have told us to do the same. Go on to Dover, if you please; the sooner we do so, the sooner we can return with help.”

 

There was some sop in that advice, and with a final reluctant glance back at the battle he flew on, wings working in earnest now. Yet still his shoulders were tense, his claws curled anxiously.

 

“I do not like to leave all my crew there,” he fretted. “The enemy was very clever about attacking; I suppose they were French.”

 

“No, Temeraire,” said Dayes, in a taut voice. “They were pirates.”

 

This piece of news only crowned Temeraire’s miseries; he had never seen a pirate, and always imagined how exciting it would be to fight one. Yet even having to suffer that disappointment could hardly compare to the pain of leaving Granby and the crew behind, and he could not resist another look back. As he did he caught the sound, faint but unmistakable, of wingbeats. They were flying towards the battle at full speed; two of them Yellow Reapers—or Fleur-de-Nuit—and one large heavyweight—and a Longwing, almost certainly a Longwing, the heavy flapping of sailcloth wings impossible to mistake.

 

“Our formation!” Temeraire cried out triumphantly, and immediately tore himself after them.

 

“No!” Dayes was shouting, over and again, but Temeraire could hardly hear him over the sweeping of his own wings. His formation was here, which meant that all would be right and good; the pirates would be defeated, and perhaps they also brought news that the Lords of the Admiralty had changed their minds, and that he might stay home, in England.

 

It was quick work to return to the ship, and a mild disappointment to find that the battle was already over. The fleet had disappeared into the night at the first sighting of a Longwing, and the men on board the seventy-two were already striking down their sails in surrender. There were a handful of pirates still on the deck, kneeling with their hands up; Temeraire cocked his head at them curiously.

 

But they were of little importance. All of his formation was here, Lily and Maximus roaring out greetings as he landed—oh, how much better this felt already, to be part of a formation again—and Granby was upright, whole, as Temeraire carefully descended by him and began to nose him over for injuries.

 

And then—a familiar voice; one he had tried so hard to train himself not to think of, and when that failed, not to long for—that he heard sometimes in his dreams, but then faded to silence when he eagerly woke up—a voice that he would have known from the other side of the world, and it was calling for him.

 

He could not quite think, he was not quite convinced that this was _not_ some dream, after all; it was—

 

“Laurence?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


	4. Chapter 4

“I wish to be sure I have it correct,” said Harcourt. “You mean that this naval captain turned pirate king, Will Laurence, was happening to be attacking dragon transports, and he happened to attack one captained by his former lieutenant, and carrying his former dragon. Is that all?”

 

“I don’t see that it’s relevant what this man used to be,” spat Dayes. “Treat him as the criminal he is and be done.”

 

Temeraire, who had been curled up small, raised his head up anxiously at this, but Dayes was focused on the argument and did not notice. Granby patted his side comfortingly, and after a moment he settled back down. His eyes returned to stare unblinkingly at the pirate Will Laurence, who by contrast had not lifted his gaze off the ship’s deck.

 

Sunrise was still a distant thought. The only illumination was the harsh yellow light of the ship’s lanterns; they were currently ringed around William Laurence so that he knelt in a pool of light. Granby studied him a moment.

 

He looked in every respect an ordinary man, not one that could lead a pirate fleet the like of which had not been raised for a century, or one that could hold the divided heart of a Celestial dragon. Sea-tanned skin, sun-bleached hair, the neat neckcloth around his neck still dotted with blood. It was very little to judge a man by.

 

“Captain Riley,” Harcourt was saying. “You would greatly oblige me by putting this man in your brig for the rest of the night; we have no hope of bringing him back to Dover before morning, and I am sure it is doing no one any good to have him up on the deck in the meanwhile.”

 

Temeraire’s eyes were still fixed on the pirate, but Granby was sure that he saw the great ruff prick up, listening close, as she continued:

 

“The formation will take him to Dover in the morning, and allow their Lordships to determine what to do with him.”

 

Into the acquiescent silence that followed came Dayes’ voice, harshly; Granby found himself wincing at the sound.

 

“Hanged as a pirate, I hope.”

 

* * *

 

 

Laurence could not find himself surprised when Riley, surrounded with a full contingent of Marine guards, had stepped into the cabin that served for his prison only a few moments after he had been put in it. Riley had changed out of his dressing gown and into his best broadcloth armor, as if he required all his reserve to face Laurence. It stirred something in him to see it; sorrow, perhaps, if he had room in him for such a thing.

 

Having thus prepared himself, however, Riley seemed now at a loss for what to say, and the two men stared at one another, silent. Laurence had stood to receive him out of politeness, but he could not bring himself to do more. His head was still ringing from the sharp blow he had received; he could not concentrate. All his thoughts were circling back to Temeraire.

 

Laurence had never, not once, imagined that he might see Temeraire again. He had not dared to think of it, and even now his thoughts shied away from the thought by force of long habit. His heart was hammering rabbit-quick inside his chest like a boy after his first battle. He had seen Temeraire—he had heard his voice—he had called his name—his fragmentary thoughts ran on against each other, jagged at their edges.

 

There was nothing like happiness in him. Perhaps another man might have felt such a thing, but Laurence could not allow it of himself. Once, he had given Temeraire up willingly, without a word of farewell. Yet that was a very long time ago now. To see him now—

 

No, Laurence felt nothing like joy. What he felt instead was dread, a dragging black dread. He had known, from the first time he had set his sights on a slaver’s ship, that he was destined for a gallows. Even with all the resources of the Tswana Empire behind him, he had hoped for little more than a few years of life before the wrath of the Royal Navy descended inevitably upon him. It looked now as if a few days was a more likely sentence; and the look in Riley’s eye served more as confirmation.

 

He still had not spoken, although a muscle in his jaw had twitched. They faced each other across the narrow cabin, the gentle swell of the ocean beneath their feet. If not for the golden epaulettes on his shoulder, Riley might once more have been his first lieutenant on the _Reliant_ , with no more concerns between them than the defending of England. They had never seen a dragon egg. Laurence tried to imagine it now; all the old comforts of rank and duty and friendship before him. It seemed strangely hollow.

 

“That was an admirable rate of fire,” said Riley, between his teeth and without looking at him directly. Laurence bowed.

 

“I thank you for the compliment to my men,” he answered quietly.

 

That seemed to serve. Riley turned and dismissed his Marine guard. They were alone now. The ship’s lantern in clutched tightly in Riley’s hand cast peculiar shadows onto his face; they danced over his lips as he spoke, making the words seem only half-real.

 

“So you are the same man,” said Riley. “I was sure that they had made a mistake, somehow, when the Admiralty spoke of the bounty on your head.”

 

“No mistake, Tom.”

 

“None save the one you have made already. God in Heaven, Will. What have you done?”

 

Laurence shook his head. “I cannot give you an answer that might satisfy you, Tom.”

 

“No,” said Riley. “You cannot. To attack a British ship, Laurence, unprovoked and without cause—I would not have believe you capable of it. Not at your worst could I have imagined it, not when the bounties went out for your arrest, and the entire navy was condemning you as a pirate. A dozen admirals have asked me to disavow you, and I would not—foolish, I called you, carried away, idealistic, but never a traitor. And now this. Can you claim to have any honor left?”

 

Laurence bowed his head in the face of this speech; he felt all the moral force of it keenly. He could take no pleasure in the thought of doing harm to England, which was still, in some corner of his heart, his home; nor could the evil consequences to Riley’s career be nothing to him.

 

“I am sorry for the trouble I have caused you,” said Laurence lowly. “All the more so, that I have no power to redress it.”

 

“I imagine justice must be its own reward,” answered Riley, very coldly.

 

“It is.”

 

After a silent moment, Riley continued. “I will have to provide the court with a report of the battle so that they may make their decision on your fate. If you have any remorse or excuses to express, unlikely as that is, now is your time.”

 

Riley had never been able to dissemble. Laurence could read his intentions as easily as his flushed face; he was almost sorry to disoblige them.

 

“I will not ask for my life,” he said.

 

Anger and grief chased each other in red waves across Riley’s face.

 

“I suppose you would not,” he said finally, bitterly, and slammed shut the door behind him.

 

He had taken the light of the ship’s lantern with him, and Laurence waited in the dark for his thoughts to settle.  He was quite alone; he had been separated from his crew and given his own cabin as a jail cell, perhaps in a confused gesture towards his former rank and birth. He paced to the porthole, guided by the familiar smell of the ocean, and breathed deep of the sea air. It might well be his last chance, after all; in the morning they were taking him to Dover, and from there to be tried safely on land. He was sure that they would execute him before the summer was out.

 

It was not death that he feared, but rather the knowledge that the next morning he would see Temeraire—or perhaps had already seen him—for the last time.

 

He stood there listening to the voice of the wind and ocean for so long that he almost did not realize that there was a third voice outside his porthole.

 

“Laurence?” it murmured, so low that it was indeed easy to mistake for the wind. Laurence could only give a sharp indrawn breath as a reply, but it seemed to serve. There was the sound of clandestine movement without, while Laurence waited on tenterhooks. He regretted betraying himself with that thoughtless gasp very much.

 

He hoped that Temeraire would not be so foolish as to try to speak with him. One word, spoken softly at a porthole, might escape notice; a conversation would not. They would not punish him for the transgression, he hoped, not such a large and valuable dragon as Temeraire; however he—he could not be sure of it. Laurence could not wish for that, of all things, to be on his conscience now.

 

But no further whisper came. Deeper shadows moved against the night, and then something was pressed to the edge of the porthole.  Laurence grabbed at it blindly.

 

It was a length of sailcloth, rolled with surprising neatness and thrust through the porthole. He waited, but that was all there was.

 

In the darkness he unfolded the ragged length of sailcloth, the fabric as familiar beneath his hands as his own skin. It was torn in places; deliberately, Laurence realized after a moment, with the tip of a dragon’s talon. First was a clumsy cross, up and across like that of St. George’s flag. He drew his hand lower over the canvas. Next were two vertical lines, side by side; he imagined drawing a border around them and making them into a tripartite flag; another flag-symbol. Some suspicion of what Temeraire intended was forming in his mind, and he was truly anxious now. The next was the cross again, drawn more elegantly now—and then his hand felt only a length of blank canvas.

 

They were crudely drawn, but the signal flags of his old service were baked into his bones. Even in the total darkness of his cabin he could see them in his mind’s eye, laid out as if on a mainmast. The blue cross, the blue-and-white tripartite, the cross again, and then a white, blank flag. He knew what it would have meant then, when he was in his old service; he knew, with a sinking heart, what Temeraire meant now.

 

_Rescue._

 

* * *

 

 

The sun rose slowly out of the sea. Granby, standing at the dragondeck tightly with his hands whitely clutched around the railing, could only urge it on. Every moment brought them closer to the final removal of Will Laurence from their lives.

 

Temeraire, restive and silent beside him, had his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the hatch through which they would bring up the prisoners. Of every soul aboard, he had the unhappy distinction of being nearly the only one who would not be glad to see them go, or to have the pirate’s fate sealed for good.

 

But that knowledge only fueled Granby’s desire to see the pirate gone. There was something too dangerous in his very presence here, as if he were a lit match being slowly applied to a great-gun. He did not mean merely the breadth of his shoulders, or the intense light in his eyes, or even his command of a fleet that could slip so silently in and out of the darkness. No, there was something much more sinister than that implied in the way he had cried Temeraire’s name last night, and in the way Temeraire had responded: there was some secret history here in how a dragon had suffered harm to his own captain for the sake of one who ought to have been an indifferent stranger, and it made Granby uneasy.

 

He could feel the tension of it running all through the ship, as if a shivering line ran invisibly between Temeraire and Laurence and was being pulled ever tauter, and all of them in the arc of its lash when it would finally snap. Even Temeraire’s formation-mates were treading respectfully around him, with only Lily and Maximus daring to speak to him in low voices. Temeraire, despite his initial excitement to see them, was barely responding.

 

Granby turned from the rail, his hands held behind his back to keep them from fidgeting. Light slanted over the ship, gilding the edges of Temeraire’s scales and throwing long shadows before them. Temeraire’s shadow fell out into the dark waters of the ocean; Granby’s ended directly at the forward hatch, the dark pinpoint of his head shifting uneasily against the door. It opened without ceremony, and an absurd number of them of Marines marched out into the sun in a neat double row. Will Laurence strode after them as if they were his honor guard.

 

He and his pirates were handcuffed, of course, but leg hobbles had been foregone. It made sense: where, on a ship several miles from the coast and covered with a full formation of dragons, could they run to? But Granby, looking at the easy, graceful strides of the pirates, could not suppress a whisper of unease.

 

Dayes appeared beside him, scowling and tense; he took in a breath as if to speak. Moved by some urgent impulse he did not himself understand, Granby cut him off.

 

“I hope Berkeley can spare the men he lent us,” he said, changing the topic before it could be broached. “Without the transport from Halifax, the Corps here will be shorthanded.”

 

His captain, still scowling, dismissed the matter with a brusque hand swept sideways.

 

“Maximus is a heavyweight, isn’t he? Men will be found for him. Or perhaps,” Dayes said, nodding curtly at the pirates, “now that he have _him_ safely on his way to the gallows, the Navy will finally recapture our lost men.”

 

“I hope they can be safely returned,” said Granby awkwardly, painfully aware that Temeraire was likely listening.

 

But now Dayes was as silent as Temeraire, and as restless. He paced the length of Temeraire’s body as the dragons of the formation made ready to fly. The familiar bustle of harness and baggage was painful to Granby, when he could have no part in it; he looked at the proceedings with longing. Maximus and Lily were circling overhead; they would have the dubious honor of transporting the pirate crew—with Laurence kept carefully separated from the rest, of course. Dulcia had already gone as soon as the sky had grown grey enough to see by, carrying dispatches to Dover. Dayes, his eyes fixed on Laurence, whispered into Temeraire’s ear; it was perhaps meant to be comforting, but Granby could see the tension fix itself throughout Temeraire’s shoulders.

 

Three slight tremors ran through the dragondeck; Nitidus, Immortalis, and Messoria had all sprung into the air, their shadows rippling over the holystoned deck. Will Laurence was brought forward to the dragondeck in preparation for the transfer; he looked up at the descending black shadow that was Maximus with a calm of a man who had long since accepted his own death. Granby began to relax, believing for the first time that Laurence would truly be gone.

 

Then, in that moment, Temeraire reared up; twenty tons of him going up abruptly on his haunches, and he made the bone-shattering, world-ending noise that was the divine wind.

 

Nervous Nitidus shied frantically from the noise, fouling Messoria and Immortalis, who were themselves not unalarmed. The three of them beat wildly against each other, their officers yelling orders without effect. Granby, his hands clamped tight over his ears, could only see their mouths opening and closing, meaningless against the all-encompassing backdrop of Temeraire’s roar. Maximus and Lily jerked upwards, hesitating. The chaos lasted only a moment, but that was all that was needed.

 

Will Laurence had broken free of the stunned Marines and were running, heedless of the noise, to Temeraire; his crew of pirates, after a startled moment, broke loose after him. Granby could not understand what they meant to do; and then, too late, he started forward at a full sprint. The pirates had already scrambled into the cage of Temeraire’s talons. They closed protectively around them, but through a gap Granby could see Will Laurence’s face, and the tears coming down his cheeks like a boy. Black wings, vaster than sails, unfurled. The _Allegiance_ rocked in the water as Temeraire leapt for the sky.

 

He and all the others could do nothing more than gape, shocked beyond words, as Temeraire climbed into the clouds and vanished. He heard a hollow thud and turned mechanically. Dayes, his face whitened beyond recognition, had fallen to his knees on the deck.

 

“Temeraire,” he said, blankly.

 

* * *

 

 

They did not speak in midair, aside from shouted directions toward the location of the convoy, nor did his crew attempt to speak with him. His skin felt tight on his face; touching his cheeks, he discovered that he had been crying. Laurence did not wonder that he should have done so; shame seemed have hollowed him out. _He_ , Laurence, might have been a traitor; but at least that was a decision willingly made, and in the name of a moral obligation greater than that held to thrones or nations. He could not bear to have made Temeraire a traitor also. He ought to have hung himself in his cabin as soon as Temeraire had brought him that sailcloth rather than allow it; yet it was not the sin of self-slaughter that had stayed his hand, but rather something infinitely more selfish. The proofs of his profound greed were all around him. Even in his despair he could not suppress the deep joy bubbling up in his chest, wholly inappropriate and unwanted. He could not help himself; he laid his hand against the black scales enclosing him and closed his eyes, giving over every sensation to the deep steady drumming beneath that warm hide, and the once-guiltless pleasure of flying.

 

“Ahoy the convoy!” shouted Dawson, and the others joined in a sudden flurry of noise. Laurence’s eyes flew open. In the sparkling ocean below was a sight to make any heart lift; two dragon transports gliding along in their ponderous way beneath a vast white cloud of sail, and around them the many ships of the convoy, in their medley of shapes and colors, from the sleek American sloops and captured slaver snows, to the larger and more ponderous merchantmen, painted black to allow for an approach under the cover of night. They maintained shifting patterns around the two dragon transports, disorganized and formless compared to a convoy of the Royal Navy, but the fast scouts on either wing would provide them more than ample warning to form up. On the far horizon Laurence spotted what could only be the _Lioness_ , under a thick crowd of sail.

 

Then Temeraire was diving, stooping; the speed of him was beyond all his memories of a quarter-grown hatchling. Guns were aiming upwards, but far too late. Laurence was devoutly glad that his claims of poisoned sharpshooters were nothing more than a bluff. Temeraire came down to the dragondeck of the empty _Polonaisse_ , unharmed, and carefully opened up the cage of his talons.

 

Dawson and the rest spilled out to meet a staring crew, with raised guns; Boston Joe, with a rather swaggering air, told them to “put those down, you idiots, can’t you see this great big lizard is with us?”

 

“Well, why did you not say so then,” said Georges, a pimply deserter from the French navy, and promptly set down the rifle that he had been holding, rather unconvincingly, with relief.

 

This prompted a deluge of questions, which were met with equally shouted answers—“I’d thought I’d see you on the gallows for sure—” bawled Wheelers, to which the response, a cheerful “Not before you, mate!” won a general round of laughter. Even the Indian dragon, who had been dozing listlessly almost ever since he was captured with the _William of Orange_ , picked up his head and eyed this new intruder narrowly.

 

Laurence listened with half an ear as Boston Joe seized the moment to embark on a colorful retelling of their capture and escape. In the hubbub of noise and confusion, only he and Temeraire were silent. Black wings came forward and circled around him, and Laurence found himself surrounded by forelegs on either side. He looked up directly into blue eyes. A great ruff around his face had grown in since he had seen Temeraire last; Laurence realized with a start that the dragon had likely now achieved his full growth. In some part of his heart Temeraire was the same creature that once had to be detangled from a hanging cot, no more than the size of a dog. But his muzzle, when he hesitantly reached out to touch it, was still soft. His hands stopped trembling.

 

“Temeraire,” he said at last, very low. “—Temeraire.” He shut his mouth on the endearment that would have followed.

 

“Laurence—it is you, isn’t it? I cannot—cannot be quite sure you are not a dream.”

 

His throat was painful. He swallowed. “No,” he said. It would have been kinder for it to be a dream; parting would have been no more than the ache that came almost nightly. He could not find any more words to say. Temeraire broke the silence.

 

“I read the newspapers, looking for word of you,” he said finally. “It did not seem, seem quite clear to me why there should be none, as if you were hiding, or turning your face away. I could not find your name anywhere. I suppose I know why now.”

 

“Yes.”

 

He had a thousand questions, and a thousand things to say; every moment of six long months that Laurence had saved up, fruitlessly, to share with Temeraire was on the tip of his tongue, and yet he had no words. Laurence wanted to know about Temeraire’s strange unworldly roar, which had left a long hollow rift in the clouds, and of his friends, Lily and Maximus, whose lives Laurence had so casually threatened. He could not understand why so valuable a dragon as Temeraire would have been on a dragon transport by himself. They would not send him away from England for long, he was sure—he could not fathom the thought of Temeraire not being home in England, _Temeraire_ and _home_ and _England_ had become so mixed up and entangled in his mind.

 

Only one thing was clear: he could not ask Temeraire to share in his own fate.

 

They had never shot a dragon in England for anything less than man-eating, but that was little comfort to Laurence. Treason might make an exception of anything, and Laurence could not allow Temeraire to take on that risk for so little a reward as he could offer. Temeraire was happy, after all—happy without him. He had seen that much. Their separation might have been the turning point of his life, but Laurence was not so selfish a man that he would ask a dragon to part from a captain who cared for him. And whatever he thought of Dayes personally, he could not deny from what he had seen that the man cared for Temeraire, and Temeraire for him.

 

“If you know what I am,” said Laurence, “then you know that you can have no place where I am going.”

 

Temeraire jerked back, his ruff going all the way back to his neck. “I do not understand,” he said, a strange resonance in his voice. “Laurence—I have only just found you again. I rescued you.”

 

“I am indebted, Temeraire, but you have only delayed the inevitable.” His heart was pounding crazily in his throat. He forced himself to say the words. “You ought to go back now,” he said lowly. “You will want to return to the _Allegiance_ before the sun sets.”

 

Temeraire did not protest or cry out, as Laurence had half feared and half hoped. His head bowed down almost to his chest, but he was quiet, he was as brave as Laurence had ever hoped for him to be, and Laurence had a sudden, visceral memory of the last time he had seen Temeraire. Barely a few weeks old then, if that, but he had already formed the spirit of a true friend and comrade; Laurence remembered him with his eyes bright, head upright, already impatient for his return. But Laurence had never come back that day, had never said goodbye: and so their lives had been made different.

 

There was a hot burning behind his eyes. With an effort Laurence held the emotions back from his face. He feared to be unmanned entirely where Temeraire could see.

 

“It is for the good,” he said, as flatly as he could. “I hope you can understand.”

 

He could not bring himself to make the words less barren, or to give more to one who had deserved all the praise in the world.

 

“I understand very well,” Temeraire said, and his voice by contrast was raw-edged with emotion. “I will go, then. I—I—” his voice pitched up wildly and then dropped to a trembling murmur. “I do not suppose I will see you again, then.”

 

Temeraire stood before him, as unmoving as a statue; Laurence could feel the warm breath caress his cheek. There was nothing that could have made this soft, still moment last any longer, yet still he could not help but long for it.

 

“No, Temeraire,” he said, as he had not done before. “This is goodbye.”

 

There was nothing else to say. Laurence turned his back, and saw that not all of his crew had been so distracted. The Tswana crewmen were watching him with pity in their eyes. They stood aside to let him pass. Behind him came the unmistakable sound of a dragon taking flight. Great winds whipped the ship from the force of his wings; he was hovering overhead, Laurence thought, but he did not turn to look.

 

Instead he took a step, and another, walking quite steadily, with all the reserve he could muster, to the aft hatchway. He went below rather than watch Temeraire disappear from view. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry.


	5. Chapter 5

If Granby thought that Temeraire had been quiet before, he was sorry now to have been proven wrong. Since his return, Temeraire had been nearly silent. Days might pass without a sound from him; he did not complain when his water ration was late, as it frequently was from the resentful sailors, and he did not pester any passing person about the names of the birds that swooped around the ship, although he did watch them, wistfully.

 

“Do you suppose we ought to cheer him up somehow?” he asked Dayes, a bit hesitantly. The captain had secluded himself in his cabin. The light through the window—there were no candles or lanterns in sight—shone upon the relics of plates of uneaten food, empty bottles that Granby chose not to inspect closely, and his unshaven face. Dayes heard the question without interest.

 

“What cheer could there be in such a desolate ocean?” he asked, staring blankly out the window at the extraordinarily beautiful day outside, the sun sparking off crashing blue waters. “I do not think I have ever endured a sea-journey so perfectly without interest.”

 

Granby with dark humor said, “Of all things, surely a lack of interest cannot be something you can complain about.”

 

Dayes blinked at him as if he had not gotten the joke. Granby could not help but feel ashamed of himself.

 

“Oh, damn it all,” he said, sitting by him. “I am sorry to be flip about it, George. This is an unlucky situation to be in.”

 

“It doesn’t seem like luck to me,” said Dayes.

 

“Exactly right,” said Granby as firmly as he could. “It wasn’t luck at all that Temeraire came back. And that is what matters, George, make no mistake.”

 

“No,” said Dayes, very low. “What matters is that he left at all.”

 

Granby could not find any way to argue with him, nor had he the heart to. He could not pretend that he had never heard of such a thing happening ever before in the history of the Corps. During their long silence the ship felt the rocking of a dragon taking flight, the room tilting first one way and then another. That, too, was another change. When Temeraire went away to hunt, he did it on his own, telling no one. After a while, when the ship had steadied, Dayes spoke.

 

“When Celeritas said that Temeraire was a little too smart, too independent, I—I was so proud. He was always better in some way than all the other dragons; faster, smarter, braver, more graceful. I never regretted that I hadn’t waited for a hatchling. Nothing could have compared to him. I never really suspected that he wasn’t really mine.”

 

He pressed the cloth of his sleeve up to his eyes, silently. Granby looked away and set his jaw shut. Dayes was lying, if not to Granby, then to himself. It was an unpleasant realization to have. With all the will in the world Granby could not pretend that he had not been witness to many of his fits of jealousy, and one of them taking place the very day they had boarded the _Allegiance_.

 

Granby’s faint but earnest hopes of reconciling Dayes towards the naval profession in general had sunk within the moment of the _Allegiance_ setting sail. They had gone down the Channel a respectable distance when Riley had apparently seen fit to make a present of some books to Temeraire, whose obvious joy in receiving them had caught Dayes’ attention. It was his right to take offense at the interference, of course, but Dayes had confronted Riley with unwonted zealousness. Granby had not heard the exact words hissed, but the tone had been vicious enough, and the stiff, offended expression on Riley’s face as he made his bows said it all. Since then the captains had hardly exchanged two words.

 

It was not a very good start to a long voyage. Granby had entertained no hopes that the barely averted pirate attack that night would bridge the divide. To Granby--and, he suspected, to Temeraire as well--it had been evident from the beginning that the quarrel was hardly about the books at all, but rather their original owner. Will Laurence had been a presence aboard the _Allegiance_ since before he had ever set foot on it.

 

"We will never have to see him again," Granby said aloud, unthinkingly. "At least we have that."

 

Dayes snapped to sudden awareness, the dull veil of apathy clearing instantly away from his eyes. "No," he said, in a voice simmering with rage and hatred. "You are wrong, John. Men like him aren't going to stop. He won't ever stop trying to take Temeraire away from me."

 

Granby stared at his captain with alarm, taking in the too-wide eyes, bloodshot with insomnia and spirits, and the hands that opened and closed like claws. He looked, suddenly, quite unhinged.

 

"I think Temeraire should be coming back soon," said Granby, for lack of anything else to say. "Shall we not go up and greet him?"

 

Dayes blinked, and then blinked again. The lines of his face sagged once more into grey indifference.

 

"What could I have to say to him?" he asked, and looked dully out the window. Granby, still shaken, hastily made his way out of the cabin. No sooner had he fumbled the door closed behind him than Hammond appeared at the end of the hallway like persistent bad dream.

 

"Dear God, what are you doing here?" demanded Granby, taking the diplomat by the arm and dragging him away. "Haven't you got some more jawing to be doing with the Chinese?"

 

Hammond blinked up at him through rimmed spectacles. “I hope not to be an imposition,” he began somewhat hesitantly.

 

“Really? I am amazed.”

 

“But I must be able to speak with the captain. It is of the utmost importance not to offend the Chinese embassy. I regret, sir, that I have not given this lesson enough emphasis in the past—my mistake entirely, I assure you, but one I hope to correct—” He was beginning to speak more rapidly, and peering around Granby, who frowned down at him.

 

“And you think that now is the time to come to the captain with that nonsense?” cried Granby in exasperation. “Perhaps you had better tell him to make peace with Will Laurence, while you’re at it.”

 

“Oh!” said Hammond earnestly. “It would run _extremely_ contrary to our mission if Temeraire were to run off again, I cannot tell you what lengths I had to go to during his absence. _That_ must surely not happen again; are you sure there is no way I cannot talk with Captain Dayes?”

 

“I see, so you think you were having difficulties. Well, I am sure we will endeavor our best to spare you—” He paused a moment to see if Hammond would notice the sarcasm, and went on—“but you cannot see the captain right now. I daresay he would chuck you over the side, and he wouldn’t be wrong in doing so.”

 

“Oh yes, I have seen more than enough this morning for evidence of his temper!” Hammond burst out, and then promptly bit down on his lip.

 

Granby stared.

 

“Has Dayes done something?” he demanded. “If he’s told the Chinese to go to the devil, that is about as much as they deserve, so don’t go looking for sympathy here.”

 

“I assume, by these remarks, that you have no idea how close we came to disaster!” said Hammond hotly. “The captain tried to forbid the dragondeck to the Emperor’s own brother! Nothing could be prejudicial to us in the eyes of the court. I have only just managed to avert offense by giving them liberty, but it was an operation of the utmost delicacy.”

 

Granby rolling his eyes said impatiently, “Myself, I see no reason for Dayes to truckle to any man so offensive, and—good God, do you mean to tell me you gave the Chinese have the liberty of the _dragondeck_?”

 

“Well—”

 

The answer was yes, apparently, and Granby could not conceive how Hammond had originally intended to tell the news. There was at once much to do, and all of it falling on Granby’s shoulders; Dayes did not come up to the dragondeck anymore. They had only just finished painting the cheerful yellow line that marked the boundary line between aviators and Chinese when the call of “Wing, seven points north!” came from the lookout.

 

Temeraire’s wings made an elegant curving black line against the horizon, his sides painted in dramatic hues by the setting sun. With a spiraling twist he dived down towards the ocean, and the crew all paused in their work to watch; despite all that had happened, Temeraire’s grace in the air was undeniably extraordinary. He skimmed very low over the waves, letting them wash off the scales and offal of his late meal, an easier task now that his leather harness had been removed at the insistence of the Chinese. He did still like to be clean, noted Granby, smiling despite himself, and it suddenly occurred to him to wonder if he would ever have preferred to have his harness off before.

 

Granby, of course, did not ask. An unaccustomed feeling of relief was creeping up his spine as Temeraire settled upon the dragondeck; some part of him, like Dayes and Hammond, had been half-expecting Temeraire to simply not come back.

 

“How was your flight?” he asked tentatively. Around them the crew was turning their attention back to their work. Temeraire shook himself off before replying, droplets of water flying everywhere and catching the last of the sun. For one moment Granby saw him wreathed in red and gold.

 

“Enjoyable,” he said. Granby waited, but that was all. Temeraire curled up with his head under his wings and pretended to sleep.

 

Twin impulses warred within Granby. He wanted to march downstairs in a righteous fury, shake the spirits and the anguish out of Dayes and force him to be the captain that a Celestial deserved. He wanted also, deeply, to wake Temeraire and demand to know what he was thinking; to be reassured that his heart was where it ought to have been.

 

Both would be interference in the extreme; neither would be likely to work. He could not force either of them to be other than what they were.

 

It was a funny irony, Granby reflected as he made his way down the creaking hallways to his own quarters. Dayes and Hammond had been the only ones who had believed at all that Temeraire would come back. Hammond had likely chosen to rather than genuinely believed it, out of that gentleman’s natural consideration of his political future—after all, the ship hardly had a reason to continue to China without a Celestial on board. Already the Chinese embassy was clamoring for Riley to return them to Britain so that they could demand an explanation of the government. Granby had only to remember the way Temeraire had looked at Will Laurence to think that he was gone forever. Only Dayes had seemed to believe, from the very pit of his body, that Temeraire would return.

 

He had explanations that changed by the hour; Temeraire had been misled, Temeraire had made an impulsive decision that he would soon redress, Temeraire was tricking the pirates into revealing their convoy location, Temeraire had decided to take personal revenge on the man who had abandoned him. (Even Dayes did not look as though he believed that last one; Riley had to quit his company entirely.)

 

He was not very convincing, but the strength of his fervor alone had compelled Riley, despite their mutual dislike, to weigh anchor for the full day, running the very real risk of French attacks. Harcourt, out of sympathy more than anything else, had lent them Messoria to carry messages for if—when, she hastily amended—Temeraire should return. But no one had truly believed except for Dayes, who refused food and drink to pace up and down the dragondeck and stare wildly at the sky.

 

Yet when Temeraire had returned after all, Dayes had not a word to say to him. It wasn’t very funny, actually, the longer Granby thought about it.

 

In the absence of movement, and in the awkward space left by Temeraire’s rescue of the pirates, the animosity between sailors and aviators had accelerated far past what their natural pace would have taken them. The tension between the two crews might have stemmed from their captains’ quarrel, but it had soon taken on a life of its own. By the time Temeraire had returned to the ship, the lines had already been drawn; sailors ranged against aviators and Dayes, somehow, all alone.

 

Temeraire's return had settled upon the brewing feud like a burden. In the eyes of the sailors Temeraire was a demon made flesh, an embodiment of all they hated and feared of dragons; unearthly, capricious, willful, treacherous. His presence made their resolve against the aviators that much stronger, for defending him.

 

As for the aviators themselves, Temeraire was a silent rebuke.

 

The Chinese, at least, seemed cheerful. The general hostility against them had not been entirely forgot, but both sailors and aviators seemed to prefer a more familiar target. In the month following Temeraire’s absence and return, the Chinese happily took their turns upon the dragondeck, speaking amongst themselves in their own strange language and taking no apparent notice of the unfriendly looks that the two crews directed at them and at each other.

 

The only other person who seemed as oblivious to it all was Hammond. He was nearly the only one of them aboard with any energy left at all, or perhaps his unfatiguing efforts were only making the rest of them look and feel tired. The passing weeks found him appearing regularly in Dayes’ cabin, even though Dayes received him without visible pleasure or indeed any kind of response at all; he was equally persistent in pressuring Riley to hold more dinners for the Chinese. Might as well invite the devil to a ballroom, thought Granby contemptuously, or wring pity from a stone; it certainly seemed to have no effect on the Chinese, who remained as unmoved as ever.

 

Slowly, agonizingly, days passed by. Madeira approached, and sank into the distance again; Temeraire looked after it long after it was gone, as if hoping to glimpse something he had lost there.

 

* * *

 

 

The fleet appeared on the distant dawn horizon like a bad dream that had not yet dissipated with the night; Laurence, standing in the tops above the silent, nervous deck of the _Polonaise_ , set his eye to the ship's glass and counted.

 

Nine heavy frigates and three ships-of-the-line; it could only be the Channel Fleet, lured from their stations by Riley's report. He could even make out some of the golden lettering on the sides of the ships; _Hercules_ , _Prometheus_ , _Lord of Cornwall_. Laurence knew these ships, and knew their captains; they would be eager to win glory, which was so rarely come by on Channel duty, and made vicious by a desire to revenge themselves on a traitor. Their nominal goal might have been the recapture of the _William of Orange_ , but they would not be satisfied with anything less than the total destruction of the pirate fleet. Nothing else would have justified taking so many ships away from the blockade.

 

Laurence collapsed the glass and swung down easily to the deck.

 

"Hoist skysails and topgallants," he said calmly. There was a strong easterly wind that morning; all the better. "I think we will have some four hours before we meet; let us make the best of it."

 

Men snapped to their work, relieved to have busy hands. Laurence stood with his own hands folded behind his back and resisted the urge to take out the glass again.

 

The _Prometheus_ had been flying the commodore's flag, and Laurence, thinking on that ship's captain, was glad to see that Captain Arnold had been given recognition at last. They had dined together many times, at sea and in London; a man of passionate daring, who had chafed under the dullness of blockade duty. Not a young man, for all his hotheaded courage: this action might represent his last chance to win glory. And, Laurence reflected dispassionately, there could be no depth to Arnold's personal hatred for him; lesser reasons had driven better men to choose defeat over wisdom.

 

Laurence went below, consulting some maps, and informed the navigator of their course. Bailes nodded silently, tense; he was himself a British deserter, and could not like the situation any better than Laurence did. Signal flags went up on the topmast in an alphabet of their own devising, entirely unreadable to the fleet following behind. Acknowledgement flashed from the other ships; the _William of Orange_ , the _Lioness_ , _Freedom_ , _Mmatli_ , the _Valerie_ and the _Amitie_ , both newly taken from the French, and a dozen other lighter frigates and sloops.

 

Besides the two dragon carriers, _William of Orange_ and the _Polonaise_ , the fleet was entirely comprised of light, fast-sailing vessels. Any of them could have shown the Channel Fleet their heels at a moment; conversely, a first-rate like the Prometheus could sink any one of them with a single broadside. Their only ship-of-the-line, the _Judgment of God_ , had been captured by the _Allegiance_ during their last battle. Their only source of significant firepower, the dragon carriers, were also what shackled their escape. But they could not abandon the dragon carriers: Laurence was acutely aware of how many fates rested upon bringing them to the Tswana.

 

Hour by relentless hour, the chase went on. The British now loomed large on the horizon, scarcely five miles distant. The stronger wind favored the heavier dragon carriers, but even so the chasers would close in little over an hour and a half. Laurence had slowly been angling south towards France, trusting to his own time in the Channel to guide him. He still remembered the high imperious cliffs of the Normandy coast, the treacherous tidal islands and the unforgiving rocks, all set in a landscape of lonely beauty; he remembered also the twin French garrisons of Tatihou and La Hougue, with their heavy cannons that guarded the lovely Baie de la Seine behind them.

 

"Land!" shouted the ship's boy up in the tops. "Land, sir, not twenty miles distant."

 

Laurence let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. "Well spotted," he called up. Mosegi was already bellowing orders. Signals began to run up and down the topmast. One by one, the lighter sloops and frigates signaled acknowledgement and peeled away from the escort; the _Lioness_ going north, _Unchainer_ going south, _Mmatli_ going north, _Liberty_ going south, until all that was left of the main fleet were the two dragon carriers and the _Valerie_ and the _Amitie_.

 

There was a moment of hesitation aboard the _Prometheus_ , and then the signals flashed out: _Stay together_. Laurence's own flag, a long black pennant, was flying above the _Polonaise_ , and it was clearly acting upon the British like a goad. But Laurence meant to give them an even greater one.

 

Already the more passably white men on the _Polonaise_ were pulling off their ragged coats and donning the uniforms of French officers, which had been unceremoniously taken off the prisoners below. On board the _Valerie_ and _Amitie_ , men were doing the same. There would not be enough time to outfit all the crew, and no amount of clothing would turn the Tswana into white men, but tars in every navy on the ocean were often burnt dark the same color. They could at least present the appearance of French officers, and hope that circumstances painted them with a favorable brush. Laurence himself was pulling on the coat and hat of the captured French captain of the _Polonaise_.

 

"I'm not sure we look entirely reputable," said Mosegi, running an eye over their counterfeit French officers, unshaven and awkward in broadcloth and linen. He cocked an eyebrow at Laurence. "Except for you, of course; you're the very picture of an officer. Although you don't seem much happy to be wearing French colors."

 

Laurence was indeed trying not to have any visible reaction at all; he had not worn the uniform of any navy for nearly a year. He had not realized how familiar it would feel; the captured captain of the Polonaise had nearly his exact dimensions.

 

"Not at all," Laurence managed. He looked up at the topmast. "Send up the flags."

 

On the deck of the _Polonaise_ , Laurence's black pennant came running down. A distant cheer began across the water, some of the British perhaps thinking that he meant to surrender like a coward, without having fired a single shot. Those cheers quickly transformed into howls of outrage as the tricolor rose steadily up on the topmasts of the four ships instead. The bow-chaser on the _Prometheus_ fired a shot, likely more out of anger than any real hope of hitting; it skipped once on the waves and fell short by half the distance between the ships.

 

For the next hour the ships ran headlong over a following sea, the wind blowing ever more strongly eastward. Every sail that the masts would hold had been sent up long ago, and the spars were beginning to groan and complain. If any one of them snapped from the strain of the wind, the Channel Fleet would hardly need do anything else to bring them to heel. But if they should be caught before they reached the garrisons…

 

Laurence sent up kites, spare scraps of sailcloth hastily sewn together and double-fastened to the main masts, so that the pale blue sky above was hardly visible for a screen of belled-out sailcloth. The hold was scavenged for lumber, additional spars and reinforcements hammered on by the frantic carpenters even as the British gained steadily behind. They were close enough now that the bow-chaser on the _Prometheus_ was now firing regularly, a steady cadence not unlike the following footsteps of a stranger. Most were landing in the ocean, but once a lucky shot on an upswell had punctured straight through a sail, and the ships were coming ever more closely within range by the minute. But then the garrisons, too, were coming distantly into view, the squat ugly tower perched upon the island of Tatihou clearly visible from the deck. Laurence turned and walked the length of the deck to the stern, where Mosegi was peering back towards their chasers. Behind the eyepiece of his telescope, Mosegi’s expression was hugely amused, a startlingly pleased smile flicking out towards one ear.

 

“I am glad one of us finds our situation so amusing,” said Laurence.

 

“Oh, I think Mary Carver is enjoying this most of all,” said Mosegi, holding the telescope out to him. “Would you like to see what tricks the Lioness is up to?”

 

“I’m not entirely sure that I would,” said Laurence, taking the glass, and was almost immediately justified in that sentiment. The _Lioness_ and most of the rest of the light frigates and sloops— _Unchainer_ , _Freedom_ , _Liberty_ , _Mmatli_ , _Revenge_ , _Kgalefô_ , and others among them—were chasing merrily in the wake of the Channel Fleet. None of them had bow-chasers or heavy artillery, as Laurence well knew, but that did not seem to dampen their cheer as far as he could see. They were playing games of crossing each other’s wakes, a ridiculously reckless endeavor in this heavy wind, and shouting merrily to each other. _Liberty_ was even putting up all her sails in an evident attempt to steal wind from the heavier ships-of-the-line before them. The maneuver almost at once brought the _Liberty_ alarmingly close to the British frigate _Prospero_ ; a certain collision course seemed inevitable before the crew of the _Liberty_ hastily reduced sail. But the _Lioness_ was pulling the same trick, but deliberately: sailing daringly close to the back of the British line for no more evident reason than the satisfaction of doing so. Through the glass Laurence saw Mary Carver aim a pistol—a pistol!—at the deck of the nearest British ship.

 

They looked for all the world like a pack of rat-terriers at the heels of a wolf-pack, and Laurence handed back the glass with a great feeling of dissatisfaction.

 

“I believe my orders to them were something in the line of—”

 

“Stay in sight, stay out of trouble?” suggested Mosegi. “You couldn’t have believed that to work. Anyway, we may be glad to see their effects on the British temper.”

 

“I am sure if any thing could provoke an Englishman to stupidity, it might be them,” said Laurence, meaning himself more than the Channel Fleet. He shook his head. If the British chose to engage the frigates now, before they reached the garrisons, all hope of victory was lost; their one saving grace was that Commodore Arnold would never run the risk that Laurence might escape. This was the kind of foolishness that came from teaching landsmen how to sail, he reflected, and turned his attention back to the garrisons.

 

Both of them were in sight now, and he could see men moving at the tops of the towers like swarming ants, made black and small by distance. But with every moment they gained distinction and clarity, and now Laurence could see clearly what they were doing without aid of a glass. They were arming the cannons. Laurence waited, seconds crawling by with the peculiar dreamlike quality he usually associated with battle, when time stretched out elastically. The dragon carriers moved ponderously forward, inching into the range of the French guns. He saw them fire, smoke billowing from the open mouths of the cannons. Laurence held his breath, but he could already see that the guns were aimed far beyond him. Shot sailed above his head and plunged into the sea just in front of the Prometheus. A massive plume of water shot up where it had landed, and then another and another, a screen of protective cannon-fire materializing before them, so heavy that it appeared for all the world like the ocean was turning to smoke. French flags at the garrisons flew messages of welcome and safe harbor, all unsuspecting of the ruse.

 

Laurence touched the cockade on his French hat and let out a long, low breath. The _Polonaise_ , _Valerie_ , and _Amitie_ were only lately taken from the French, and the lettering had not been painted away; they would likely have recognized those ships. And what else could they, running straight for the harbor of French garrisons, chased hell-bent by a large English fleet, possibly be but a French convoy?

 

But that assumption would not stand up to close or prolonged inspection. All the better to end it as quickly as he could.

 

“Now!” Laurence shouted, and the great ships turned in the water, sending huge waves towards shore. Everything not already secured to the deck went flying. Men fell skidding across the deck. Laurence himself clapped on to a line to keep his balance. On the _William of Orange_ , the captured Indian dragon, who had improbably slept all through the sea-chase, woke with an outraged yell. He rose to a wary crouch, flexing his wings in and out as if unsure whether to fly. Laurence saw him look once to the French flag flying above his head, and then across the water to the British fleet, narrowing his eyes.

 

The sails of the dragon-carriers were so abruptly sheeted down that the deck was temporarily a chaos of white. The anchors were let out; the ships stopped turning. They presented their broadsides to the British, now a quarter-mile away across the water. The ocean between straddled the end of range for the garrison’s cannons, an invisible barrier made manifest through the heavy rain of cannon-fire. The _Lioness_ , seeing his intentions, finally reduced sail, leaving the British to be his sole target.

 

“Ready guns,” said Laurence.

 

A noise came up along the deck; not a cheer and not quite a sigh, men at all stations making a low anticipatory noise in unison. Laurence felt the noise build; below it he could hear the rhythmic thud of cannons slamming into place, one after the other, and the hiss of slow-matches. He waited for the upswell.

 

“Fire!” he bellowed, and at once the sea that surrounded the enemy fleet boiled into steam. The roaring of the great guns was extraordinary; he felt it vibrating inside his bones. Most of the cannonballs had gone short into the water. Three had gone too far. One had grazed the hull closely enough to scratch the golden letters on her side. Another three had carried away spars and sails, and the men cheered to see it.

 

The moment was a crossroads; Laurence knew that Commodore Arnold, in the _Prometheus_ , would feel it as much as he did. Arnold knew quite well that the pirate fleet could not stay within the range of the French garrisons for long. Without the rush and excitement of battle, the French would soon grow suspicious. Yet simply withdrawing his ships to a safe distance and waiting them out was no option; Laurence’s sailors had grown far too skilled in navigating by night. Closing and boarding would take them into the range of the French garrisons, an idiotic venture for any captain. And yet letting them go was out of the question.

 

At once, and in unison, the British trimmed sail and hauled around, presenting their broadsides. The maneuver was finely carried out, the frigates turning on their heels as prettily as birds. Boats were being lowered into the water, crammed full with men of courage and determination; Laurence watched it happen with a dull ache in his chest.

 

“Fire,” he said again, and the cannons roared out, tearing away more of the British spars and sails. The rowboats were setting off, cutting fast across the water. Shot from the garrison came down around them in a hot iron rain. Laurence, incongruously, recognized a face he knew from a dinner-party: midshipman Henry Collins, who had been the son of one of his mother’s friends. His young face was fixed eagerly on the _Polonaise_ , almost aglow with anticipation of battle. Laurence almost cried out a warning, but it was too late. The cannonball smashed through him. His body caved in around the empty hole in his chest, and the boat folded up around him; they sank down into the water and were lost from sight.

 

Boats were capsizing everywhere he looked, driven down into the water by cannon-fire. But for every one of them lost, another was pushing through the wreckage, and every face was alight with hatred. Laurence could not pretend not to know how they felt; Henry Collins had been eleven when they had last met, and had told him that he wished to be in Laurence’s own command. He could not shake the memory of his light, piping voice and his mother’s laughter out of his head, a strange undercurrent to the thunder and boom of cannon-fire. Reluctantly, he gave the order to fire upon the boats.

 

Smoke and thunder from across the water: the Channel fleet was firing, one after the other, deliberately high to avoid hitting their own boats. The fury of twelve broadsides slammed through his masts and spars. Men screamed as they fell from the tops and into the churning sea. A splinter the length of his own arm landed not two inches from his foot, and then the entire spar fell, groaning like a tree in the forest; Laurence dived forward and narrowly avoided a crushing blow.

 

He looked up into a momentary pause in the firing; the _William of Orange_ had only slight damage, and the _Valerie_ and _Amitie_ firing rapidly without a pause, but above the _Polonaise_ was pure wreckage. They had taken the brunt of the beating, Laurence realized grimly. He, William Laurence, was the traitor; he was therefore the target.

 

“Keep firing, damn you!” said Mosegi furiously, when the gun-crews would have stopped their work. They snapped to, looks of paralyzed astonishment sliding off their faces, and Laurence, too, started into alertness. He took one glance at the approaching boats, now very near.

 

“Stand ready to repel boarders!” he bellowed, and every man not on a gun-crew rushed into position.

 

It was something more than ordinarily tiring, to fight against a uniform that was once his own, against men that he once knew. His arm rose up almost of its own volition and struck down a carpenters mate from his own first command—and then in another stroke a man he had known from the Goliath was dead—Laurence struggled for a name as his arm moved again and again. His mind felt utterly removed from his body, as if he was watching a stranger perform an action that he could not himself stomach. Silas, he thought suddenly, Silas Hampsey—he had played the sweetest fiddle that Laurence had ever heard. He found himself dwelling upon a half-remembered melody as a burly Marine fell down dead before him. His sword was gleaming and red. He looked up at the sound of artillery; not the massive forty-twos that the dragon carriers fired, nor the twenty-fours that the Channel Fleet carried, but the lighter voices of the eighteen and twelve-pounders that the light frigates and sloops of the pirate fleet used.

 

The _Lioness_ and the others had somehow slipped into position. Not without price: the _Unchainer_ and the _Laughing Devil_ were both limp in the water, gaping wounds in their sides. But the rest had broken through the British line, taking advantage of their swiftness and small size. Three columns of pirate ships divided the British from one another, perpendicular to the line of battle. Their broadsides pointed directly down the length of the British ships, and each pirate vessel was firing both broadsides at once.

 

The devastation was immediate. Cannon-fire raked through the British ships from fore to aft, wreaking in its wake. Entire chunks were being torn from the masts. The ship's wheel of the  _Lord of Cornwall_ had been carried away. One shot tore through three gun-crews in a row, men instantly reduced to limbs and parts. Sails and rigging snowed down on the decks, drifitng a little in the wind; an oddly peaceful sight. On the  _Prospero_  a fallen sail had caught fire; it was spreading quickly on the deck, uncontrolled. 

 

The pirate ships were firing faster than they had ever managed in practice, one broadside after another hammering at the British line. At such a distance even a twelve-pounder could not fail to punch through the thick hulls; Laurence could only imagine the destruction below matched that from above. The  _Prospero_  had already run down their colors, men abandoning their guns to desparately put out the fire. But  _Prometheus_ , despite being exposed to the heaviest of the fire, was turning. At first Laurence was at a loss to see how Arnold had managed it; both rudder and sails were almost entirely gone. But as the ship turned away from him, he quickly saw it. The men of the  _Prometheus_  had intentionally cut open a hole in the hull of the starboard stern, just at the waterline, and the force of the water rushing into the ship was propelling the  _Prometheus_  around. Its broadside was now facing the pirate vessels.

 

Fifty guns fired at once. The topmast of the  _Mmatli_  snapped instantly, hit by multiple twenty-four pounders. In less than a second  _Slaver's Justice_  had lost half their gun-crews. Great spreading pools of blood ran down into the jagged holes that had opened up in the deck. Men were diving off the side, abandoning ship; it was already sinking, dragged down by the weight of water inside the hull.

 

But the  _Prometheus_ , too, was sinking. The lowest of the four gun-decks was already below water, and the third had water coming in through the portholes. But they were clearly readying another broadside, the British flag flying proudly above, unfallen. And then, on the  _William of Orange_ , a terrible scream rang out, and the Indian dragon took to the air.

 

Laurence had been in action with dragons before, but he had never seen the savagery of an unharnessed dragon in battle. The Indian dragon arrowed directly at the  _Prometheus_. Ship and dragon were near perfectly matched for size, something that became apparent as he landed directly on the deck. Laurence could only watch, appalled despite himself; 900 men or more were aboard the ship.

 

Claws raked at the deck, tearing through the boards to get at the men below; a writhing tail wrapped around the masts and rigging and tore them down; wings labored for balance, and a massive head full of teeth was snapping at the fleeing men. His horns had snagged upon some of the rigging, looking something like a serpent festooned in seaweed. The primal fury of the beast invoked a low, atavistic fear in the bottom of Laurence’s stomach. It was every ancient sailor's tale of sea-monsters and demons come to life. 

 

The  _Prometheus_  buckled below the dragon's weight, and finally cracked. The loving golden and blue detailing around the gunports sank below the water, the carved adornments below the stern windows breaking off and falling into the sea, the pride of British shipbuilding reduced to less than the wood that it began as. The ship was rapidly submerging, tentacles of water flowing eagerly over the lip of the deck, and as the prow sank below the water the Indian dragon tore down the British flag and roared in triumph over the wreckage of nearly a thousand souls.

 

And across the British line, the colors came slowly down.

 

* * *

 

 

"I shall require your parole," Laurence said later, in his cabin, as the last of the surviving captains were ushered in. Commodore Arnold, his arm in a sling, regarded him with the deepest distaste. Laurence returned the favor. He could have nothing complimentary to say to a man who had survived 900 of the finest sailors in the service under his command.

 

"Give our parole to you?" Arnold spat at his feet. "Never."

 

Laurence hit him, an open-handed blow that sent the older man to the floor.

 

"I wish to make your position clear," he said evenly. He felt nothing approximating anger, but he could not help but feel disgust at the man's brashness after seeing the dreadful wreckage of his ship. "I have no use for further prizes. You may give me your parole and return to England with your ships. Or I will burn them to the waterline and leave you for the French."

 

He nodded to the silent, dismayed captains. "If you cannot give your parole to me, my second, Mosegi, will accept it on my behalf." Mosegi uncrossed his arms and stepped forward, smiling a little as if he found something privately amusing. The captains stared at him with open outrage.

 

"You have ten minutes," Laurence added, and left.

 

Outside the cabin, he found that he had another visitor. The Indian dragon, brown and green with bright-red streaks like a forest in autumn, had flown to the Polonaise and was evidentially waiting for him. Laurence found himself inspected by a bright green eye.

 

“Owákaȟniǧe šni. Tókheškhe yaúŋ he?” said the dragon.

 

Laurence shook his head. "I do not understand your language," said Laurence in English, and then tried a few faltering words in French. They regarded each other in mutual mystification.

 

The Indian dragon—Dakota, Laurence thought he had heard—made a rumbling noise of dissatisfaction and sat back on his haunches. Laurence thought perhaps he ought to have been afraid of him, after the destruction he had just wreaked, but he could not bring himself to try for it. The dragon's story was not hard to guess. He had been alone on a dragon carrier running from Halifax, where local unrest was considerable. He was likely a prisoner of war, his captain kept separately from him and held hostage for his good behavior. Laurence did not imagine that the dragon had heard a kind word in any language, much less his own, in some time. The British were obviously his bitter enemy.

 

Laurence pressed a hand to his own chest. "Laurence," he said. The dragon cocked his head to the side. Laurence thought perhaps that he had not understood, but then the dragon put a claw to his own chest.

 

"Akecheta," he rumbled.

 

Laurence nodded, and then saw the blood dripping down the dragon's foreleg. He scanned the deck. 

 

"Pule!" he called, and a Tswana man turned towards him. His grasp of Tswana was very poor, although Mosegi tried not to laugh at him more than he could help it, but Pule was quick to see Akecheta's wounds. He called to his companions, speaking faster than Laurence could follow, and tried to approach Akecheta, who snarled.

 

Laurence made calming gestures. "Do not be alarmed," he said slowly, feeling that unintelligable speech was better than none. "Lie still, Akecheta. They are dragon-surgeons. Just lie still, be calm--" Akecheta studied Laurence, suspicious, and then slowly came down to all fours on the dragondeck, allowing the healers to access the wound in his side. He snarled once more, when the healers touched the wound; Laurence hastened to put his hands on his muzzle, and Akecheta quieted, although his skin was twitching.

 

It should have been a different dragon that he did this for, but Laurence drove that thought out of his head as quickly as it came. It should have been another man for Akecheta, too, but he seemed to serve.

 

Later, when wounds on the dragon and men alike had been mostly treated, after the captains had given their parole and were set down in a rowboat to return to their ships, after French and English prisoners were offloaded to the surviving ships of the British fleet, after the salvageable ships of the pirate fleet had been secured to be towed behind the dragon carriers and services in seven languages and religions had been carried out for the dead, Laurence finally lay down in his cot.

 

A fiddle was playing somewhere in the ship as he slept; Laurence pressed a pillow to his ear, drowning it out, but he dreamt unquiet dreams nonetheless. 

 

* * *

 

 

The first he knew about the quarrel was when Blythe was to be flogged; Temeraire heard the threat through a dreary haze of sleep and sat up and roared.

 

“No one is flogging Blythe,” he said angrily, realizing in that moment that he _was_ angry, for the first time in weeks. “And if any of you dare—” He drew in breath, preparatory; the familiar thunder of the divine wind was building in his chest.

 

“Temeraire, you can’t,” said Ferris urgently, but the words were oddly muted, as if he were short of breath. His face was deathly pale.

 

“Stay out of this,” said Lord Purbeck coldly, not recognizing the depth of Temeraire’s rage, and Temeraire looked at him and opened up his jaws.

 

“Damnit, what is going on?” Granby demanded, pushing his way through the crowd. Temeraire shut his jaws with a snap. “And I’ll thank you to take your men off of Blythe, Purbeck; you’re certainly not the premier on _my_ crew.”

 

“That would indeed be a sorry day for us all,” drawled Lord Purbeck. “Certainly the discipline on _your_ crew is in a sorry state. Your man struck an officer; he must be set in irons straightaway.”

 

Granby, pausing, turned to Blythe. “Is that true?”

 

“It does not matter if it is true or not.” Temeraire brought his head down close to the men on the deck, who all froze. Some remnant of the divine wind remained in his voice, and the masts and the very timbers of the planks shivered as if the ship itself was afraid of him. “I am not allowing anyone on my crew to be flogged, no matter the reason; I do not care what you have to say to me about it, and if you try to take him below to punish him where I cannot see, I will rip up the decks and find him.”

 

The objections made to this reasonable ultimatum were extraordinary. Riley himself came up to the deck to try to reason with him; when that failed, someone was even sent to fetch Dayes. But Dayes would not come, and Temeraire triumphantly curled a protective foreleg around Blythe, ignoring the fearful, pallid looks of the sailors.

 

“Oh, Hell, Temeraire,” said Granby. “Can you not see you have only made it worse?”

 

“I’m sorry he’s taken it so personal-like, sir,” said Blythe; quite unreasonably, Temeraire thought.

 

“I do not see that I have made it worse at all,” said Temeraire. “They were going to have Blythe flogged; _that_ would have been worse. But now Blythe is not hurt at all, he is as safe as he ought to be.”

 

“He struck an officer—”

 

“Who was being rude to Martin, as I understand it, and so you cannot say that he did not deserve to be struck. No, I cannot see my way to letting Blythe be _flogged_ just for knocking a man over. But where is Martin?” he asked with sudden anxiety, and looked around the dragondeck wildly.

 

“He is sitting there behind you,” said Granby with exasperation, and went on about something else or the other; Temeraire was engaged in looping his tail securely around Martin. After all, if they were ridiculous enough to wish to flog Blythe just for defending Martin, it stood to reason that they might be extreme enough to go after Martin next.

 

He was beginning to realize just how negligent he had been in the care of his crew. Granby was quite correct in one thing: the quarrel ought not to have happened in the first place. To think that sailors thought nothing to insulting his officers in his own presence! Something had clearly gone wrong. It was not entirely his fault, Temeraire consoled himself—he had expected Riley to run a tighter ship than this—but it was clear that he ought to have been keeping better watch.

 

Blythe was not permitted to go below to sleep that night. By the next night, Martin was also required to stay where Temeraire could see him. And then of course Roland and Dyer were required to fetch and carry for them, and it anxiously occurred to Temeraire that the two of them were so very small that perhaps they shouldn’t be allowed out of his sight either.

 

“Temeraire, this is ridiculous,” said Granby. “Blythe has his duties, you know, and so does Martin. You cannot possibly expect to keep them with you for the entire length of the voyage."

 

"I don't see why not," said Temeraire, obstinate, and curled more securely around the crew members in question.

 

"Because China is months away yet," said Granby, a hand rising to his forehead. "Lord, you are giving me a headache."

 

Temeraire was instantly all concern.

 

"Have you been to see the ship's doctor? Or perhaps you had better not, Keynes will do very well for you. You do not have a fever, do you?" He peered closely down at Granby's shoulders and instantly noted that he was thinner than he ought to have been, the lines on his face more worn.

 

"I am perfectly well," Granby protested, but Temeraire had already called for someone to send Keynes.

 

"There is nothing even the least matter with him," said Keynes, a little perfunctorily. "You, on the other hand, would do better not to give yourself these starts.”

 

“Is there any reason these men should not be up on the deck at night?” Granby gestured to Blythe and Martin, who looked up hopefully.

 

“In this warm clime, none,” said Keynes shortly, ignoring the very pointed look that Granby was shooting him. “In fact, it would not be amiss for every crewman to sleep on deck; ship conditions in this latitude are excellent for breeding typhus.”

 

“Typhus?” said Temeraire in alarm.

 

From then on, every man of the crew from Granby on down spread out at night upon the dragondeck, carefully encircled by Temeraire’s bulk. He had allowed—very reluctantly—that it was unreasonable for him to keep all of them with him at _all_ times, and so as long as one—or two—of the officers was always present. The crew had been spending much of their leisure time on deck in any case, and so not much had changed save that the sailors were pointedly close-mouthed around them, which Temeraire could only take as an improvement. They had learnt their lesson, he expected, and put them out of his mind.

 

It was during this time that Yongxing’s visits to the deck began to increase in number. Temeraire had at first been determined to ignore him, and had even been successful for a while. But it was hard to ignore a man who spoke of such agreeable things; serene lakes and green gardens, porcelain as pure as snow, jewelry of the finest jade and ivory. But best of all was the poetry, of all things: it had been a long time since anyone had read anything to him of any kind.

 

“And a dragon wrote this?” he asked, wonderingly.

 

“Poetry is one of the three perfections of the refined mind,” said Yongxing. “Of course all dragons of the best breeding are tutored in composition. You shall be, as well, when we reach China; it is a more fit profession for your rank than mere soldiering,” this last said in great distaste.

 

“I do not know if I should be very good at being a poet. And I would miss fighting,” said Temeraire; indeed, he was feeling increasingly wistful for the skirmishing over the Channel, even if formation-work had been boring.

 

The prince’s lips compressed deeply, but he only said, pleasantly, “And of course you shall be given the jewels and honors that befit your breeding.”

 

“ _That_ would be excellent above all things,” said Temeraire, thinking of the golden collar Celeritas wore. “I should like to have jewels of my own.”

 

“Has not your— _companion_ —been able to keep you in state? You have nothing that he has given you?”

 

“No,” said Temeraire, slowly. He had had a gold chain once, with pearls; he had slept with it curled around his talon like a ring. He did not think of it any longer.

 

“When you are received by the Emperor,” said Yongxing, “you will be adorned with the finest gold and silver.” Temeraire’s tail switched back and forth pleasurably, and then the prince added, “—and to keep you from falling into your current state again, a more fit companion will be given to you, a prince of the imperial line itself.”

 

Temeraire drew back immediately with a hiss, and would have nothing else to say to the prince for the remainder of the day. Even Granby could not get a word out of him. Temeraire tucked his head deeply under his wing and was quietly alone with his thoughts; he had already lost one captain, and had no desire to lose another; he had besides this already learned the value of such promises.

 

The next day saw them arriving at Benguela, a spreading bay of yellow sand and green palms swaying before a soft breeze. It would have been a wholly charming landscape were it not for the smell. A cluster of white sails was filling the port, and some of them, Temeraire saw, were heavily armed. But more distressing than that were the sound of clanking chains; he could hear it clear across the water, as a line of black men—and children, and women—were led naked down the quay, bound together at the neck and hands and their backs bent with weariness. Some of them had blood dripping down their sides, and as he watched one of them slipped in his own blood and stumbled to the ground. A man standing over him beat him savagely with a rifle until he stood up again. Temeraire’s ruff went up involuntarily.

 

He asked Granby, who looked and said, “I suppose those are slaves, Temeraire; poor souls.”

 

“Slaves?” said Temeraire, baffled by the notion. His eyes were still on the chained prisoners, who were now being loaded into one of the ships. “But whyever would they be made into slaves?”

 

“I do not know,” said Granby in surprise. “They’re used for farming sugar and cotton and such, I think; I’ve no connection to the business. Pray look away if it bothers you.”

 

But Temeraire could not look away, not even long after the last crying child had been shoved down into the ship’s hold. His tail switched back and forth unhappily; he could not help but picture Granby and Blythe and even little Roland and Dyer held within those chains. _They_ surely had no dragon to belong to, though, or else they would not have been enslaved, but the sight of it distressed Temeraire deeply.

 

Now he knew where the smell had come from, which did not make it more palatable; he could not sleep for the stench. He woke in the middle of the night from a light, uneasy sleep. Two of the sailors on watch were talking midway down the deck. In the sleeping deck their voices were perfectly audible.

 

“I ain’t never,” said one, “seen a convoy this large, and for what? Not a load of tea or silk in sight. A precious odd thing, protecting slaves like they’re cargo.”

 

“Aye, no privateer ever ran down a slave ship before,” said the other. Neither of them seemed to have noticed that Temeraire was not sleeping anymore. “But word is the Americas can’t get enough to replace the ones that keep dying, and the monied are losing ships in the bargain. Me cousin is on the Sharon Rose, what runs out of Plymouth, an he says that now they travel in packs, with escort ships full of shot and powder instead of more of them apes. They’re running scared of the black fleet.”

 

“The black fleet?”

 

“That’s what they call that traitor’s navy.” He spat over the side. “The one our very own dragon belongs to. Fitting, ain’t it? Will Laurence’s black dragon, for his black heart.”

 

Temeraire shut his eyes and pretended to himself that he wasn’t listening. His entire body was quivering with the urge to fly, to roar, to disappear into the night; but he could not. He had only one captain, even if they had not talked or seen each other in months; he had only one captain, even if the closest he could get to him was by gathering all the crew to him at all times; he had only one captain, and if he left him, he would have none at all. It was his own chain, one that he could not break.

 

The journey went by very slowly. Temeraire grew ever more anxious without his crew about him, but Dayes never once came up from his cabin.

 

On February 19th, 1806, the _Allegiance_ at last sailed into Capetown harbor.

 

Will Laurence and his black fleet were already there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to my homeboys, patrick o'brien and the wikipedia article, Naval Artillery in the Age of Sail


	6. Chapter 6

The fear gripping the town was nearly palpable, curling into his lungs like the constant smoke of gun-fire that hung over them in clouds. Granby could read it the whites of the eyes that flickered towards him as he walked down the narrow streets. The acrid taste of gunpowder lingered in the back of his throat; the guns at the fort had not stopped firing for several days now, blasting away vainly at the ships across the water.

 

Granby paused on the sloping path winding down to the lonely port, the walls of the fort towering above. From this vantage point he could see the breathtakingly wide expanse of the blue Capetown sky, so much more vivid than any sky in England, and the cluster of black sails that pricked up against the horizon like little dark knives.

 

Every day more ships were trickling in, to the panic and rage of the settlers; they sailed in by night, so that they woke in the morning to find themselves surrounded by ever more enemies. The two captured dragon carriers were nowhere in sight, although the appalling reports of the disaster in the Channel had noted one of them to be William Laurence’s own flagship. Their absence was not particularly reassuring to Granby; if that massive firepower was not being used on them, it was being used somewhere else, and Granby dreaded to wonder where. In any case, the most dangerous thing that the dragon carriers had carried was William Laurence, and he was most certainly here in Capetown. The note in his pocket was proof enough of that.

 

The same note had been springing up everywhere, plastered to walls, passed around in pubs, stuffed hastily into pockets. They all carried the same handwriting, one that bore the unmistakable stamp of good breeding and an excellent education. Granby could not guess what had separated him from his flagship, but he did not doubt that the author of the notes was exactly who he claimed to be. Yet when he imagined the idea of William Laurence spending his days writing these hundreds of warnings by hand, he could not reconcile it with the savage fighter who had boarded their ship in the dead of night. 

 

The cattle-herder appeared behind him as Granby stared out into the bay. Behind him came a string of a dozen kine, some of them faintly lowing as they caught a hint of Temeraire’s scent in the air. The man spoke not a word of English, nor Granby a word of Dutch, but his reproachful glance was fluent enough as he gestured for Granby to move out of the way. With a guilty start Granby began to make his way down the path again, into the crowded streets. His green uniform gave him plenty enough room in the streets, although the flat stares of the people moving out of his way made Granby’s skin prickle. He heard murmurs as he passed through the crowd; _draak_ , _draak_ , the only recognizable word in the stew of conversation; the noise had taken on a low, unpleasant quality. Granby was sinkingly certain that he knew what they were saying. There were notes being passed amongst the crowd, flashes of white changing hands, mouths silently sounding out unfamiliar English letters. There were few black Africans walking in the streets; those passed through warily, with their eyes cast low; the Dutch looked at them with naked hatred and fear.

 

He imagined Will Laurence waiting in the crowd, hidden behind the many unfriendly eyes, and his shoulders stiffened. It was a delusion, of course. The settlers would have torn the pirate limb from limb rather than hide him. Yet Granby knew that somehow, some of his crew must be sneaking unseen into Capetown. He could feel their eyes watching him.

 

The note burned like a brand in his pocket all the way back to the ship.

 

Temeraire was drowsing by the time Granby reached him, stark black against the gleaming white of the dragondeck, being watched frowningly by Yongxing. Granby ignored the prince and reached out to stroke Temeraire's nose. He woke instantly.

 

"Is it time to fly yet?" he asked at once, wings fluttering out a little. "Not that I am complaining, but being confined to the deck is dreadfully boring."

 

"Not much longer," said Granby, hoping it was true. “And there’ll be fresh beef for dinner tonight.”

 

This news cheered Temeraire considerably, but even that did not last for long.

 

“If I could only fly, I could go and get myself a nice cow whenever I liked,” he said plaintively. “Are you quite sure—”

 

"We are like to leave as soon as we are supplied,” said Granby, trying to be conciliatory, “I am sorry, Temeraire, but we can't afford for you to be away when that moment arrives. I cannot imagine Riley likes it here much more than I do, with every man and woman with a bit of English railing at him for passage out, no matter whether we go to China or to hell."

 

Temeraire cocked his head at him. "I have been wondering, Granby, why can we not take these people with us? This is a very big ship, isn't it?"

 

"Not big enough, nor can we spare the expense. In any case there's barely anything to be worried about. The fort has cannon and gunpowder enough to keep away anything that threatens by sea."

 

"Does it?" Temeraire craned his neck around to look at it. "It's impressive enough from down here," he conceded. "But I'm sure the formation and I could roll it up in an instant."

 

"I'm sure you could," said Granby, smiling. "But the pirates don't have a dragon, you know." A poisonous thought crossed his mind, but he cast it out as quickly as it had come.

 

"If that's so," said Temeraire, with an air of great cunning, "then perhaps it wouldn't be so bad for me to fly-"

 

He stopped suddenly, his entire air changing and his ruff coming up sharp. A moment later Granby heard it too: men’s voices raised in argument, coming up clearly through the floorboards; one deeper, authoritative, and one younger, sharper, harsh.

 

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” said Granby after a moment, feeling all the awkwardness of the words. “I’ll just go and see what they’re about, shall I?”

 

Temeraire was silent.

 

"If you like," he said at last. His voice was strangely hollow.

 

Granby hesitated a moment, but Temeraire had already tucked his head deeply beneath his wing. He bit back the words on his tongue. To speak them without invitation would be interference in the extreme. Granby turned his back and went below.

 

The shouting was clearer belowdecks. Granby turned towards the sound; it was coming, as he had expected, from Dayes´ cabin. The bulkheads were thin enough that he could hear every word.

 

“—will not allow you to do this!”

 

“I was not aware that officers of His Majesty’s Aviator Corps were permitted to allow or disallow,” answered Riley’s voice coldly. Dayes made a low, inarticulate noise that meant that he had lost his temper. Deciding that he had heard enough, Granby opened the door.

 

Both men whipped around. Outrage was written clearly all over Riley's face; naval men, Granby had noticed, valued high their illusion of privacy, no matter how thin the walls were. He had wondered more than once how far that vaunted sense of discretion would extend. It was a thought to amuse himself during idle hours, nothing more; the Navy hanged men like him.

 

“You know we can hear you,” he said, ignoring Riley’s cold look. “What is this shouting about, then?” He glanced over at Dayes, who merely looked sullen.

 

“As this gentleman of the _Navy_ —” he bit out the word, “—refuses to concede a single word I say, perhaps you will have better luck, John. What his ill-begotten plan is, I can only imagine.”

 

Riley responded quickly before Granby could speak. His tone was cutting. “You should not need to imagine it if you would have bothered to hear me speak. Pirates are badly disciplined and ill-equipped; the _Allegiance_ will make short work of them.”

 

“Do you not remember the last time this wretched behemoth of a ship crossed paths with pirates? You were losing then and you will lose again now!”

 

“I do remember,” said Riley. “I remember when you took Temeraire and flew away from the battle, and relied on the courage of naval men and your formation to win your safety for you.” The coldness in his face was palpable. For a moment Granby was vividly reminded of another man who had walked these boards, not so long ago, but he shook his head to clear himself of it. Will Laurence’s shadow was everywhere these days, it seemed. “Perhaps these pirates will also prove to be cowards—” he let the sentence hang, delicately, while Dayes’ face grew red, and finished with, “—as well as brigands, and run away.”

 

“Run away,” repeated Granby, not understanding a word save for the naked hostility. “Why would the pirates run away, when they’ve been staking out the port for a week or more? Is the Navy on its way?”

 

“I have no doubt of that,” said Riley crisply. “And when they come, they will not find _me_ hiding in my cabin, drinking; they will find me having done my duty in open battle.”

 

“He wants to fight the pirates,” said Dayes in a flat voice, when Granby still looked all confusion.

 

Granby spun to Riley. “Dear God, is this true? I thought we were leaving this godforsaken harbor.”

 

"We are, Mr. Granby," said Riley. "But first we will clear out this scourge, once and for all."

 

"You talk as if this vessel has nothing better to do than round up some dozen pirate ships! This is a dragon transport, or isn't it? Stands to reason that the main purpose is to carry dragons about, not to defend surly Dutch who don't need defending. He might have given us a scare, but not even Will Laurence can take Capetown with those spindly boats out there."

 

"And what then? Have it be said that a British dragon-carrier, with a broadside of five thousand pounds and a prime heavyweight on board, instead fled from battle with tail tucked?"

 

"Temeraire is not yours to order about!" Dayes burst in wildly. "Whatever you plan, you will do it without him!"

 

"You have made that clear enough already, I thank you," said Riley coldly. "I wonder perhaps what _your_ plan is. Do you think that the pirates will simply allow us to leave?"

 

"He says he will," offered Granby, hesitantly, into the silence that followed. Riley paused.

 

"I beg your pardon?"

 

Granby drew the note from his pocket. "These are all over the town. Signed by him; he offers ships safe passage out.” He walked across the cabin to lay it flat on the small desk; it was unused save for some empty bottles.

 

Riley read it swiftly. "He does," he said shortly, when he was done. "He also writes— _Do not attempt to leave with enslaved labor. Such attempts will not be met with mercy_. You understand, I presume, why the settlers here are not reassured. It is not only the pirates that they fear. You know as well as I do that every day that damned black fleet waits outside Capetown harbor, the threat of revolt by the slaves and natives kept here grows ever more present.”

 

Granby repressed a shrug with difficulty. “But it is in his hand, isn’t it?” he pressed. “He wrote this letter.”

 

Riley read over the letter again, this time lingering over the words.

 

“It is,” he admitted eventually. “And he would write such a thing, damn him.” He stalked to the door. “None of it changes my course of action, however. I beg your leave.”

 

Granby was on his heels even as he crossed into the ship's passageway, yet another breach of naval etiquette, from the look on Riley's face. Granby ignored it.

 

“Temeraire may not mean anything to you,” said Granby, low, “but by God is he worth the world and everything in it to us. Pursuing this—this—” Granby struggled for a word that wouldn’t force Riley to call him out right there in the lowerdecks; he settled on waving his hand vaguely. “It will only put Temeraire in danger, for little gain; you must reconsider.”

 

Riley continued to move forward at a clipped pace. "I _must_ not do anything, Mr. Granby, I am the captain of the _Allegiance_ , in case you do not remember. And I cannot pretend that I feel the affection for Temeraire that you have, but I reject your claim that I feel nothing for him. The creature was hatched on the deck of my own ship; I take my duties to him as seriously as to anyone aboard this vessel."

 

Granby began heatedly, "If you truly do, then why—"

 

Riley's face changed to sudden alarm. Before Granby could react, he had wrapped a firm arm over Granby's neck and pulled him down easily to the floor. Something heavy whistled through the air above their heads, followed in a moment by an explosive crash. Pebbles of glass hailed down, clattering across the wooden floor and tumbling past Granby’s face. A thin trickle of liquid crawled among the glass debris.

 

Riley was on his feet in an instant. Granby lifted his head, shutting his eyes briefly as a shower of brown glass cascaded off his hair. He opened them again to see Dayes, a haunted expression on his face, twist past Riley's reaching arms and race up to the dragondeck. In a moment he, too, was up and running. Riley was pounding up through the hatch, an awful cold determination on his face, and Granby burst out after them into the harsh sun.

 

Dayes was at the edge of the dragondeck, silhouetted against the brilliant Capetown sky. He was speaking urgently with Temeraire, who was coiled, wary, alert, wings fluttering out and then in again. He was scraping his claws along the dragondeck.

 

“But Granby was very insistent that I should not leave the ship,” said Temeraire, his voice tremulous with uncertainty.

 

“Granby is not your captain, and neither is Riley,” Dayes snapped, and then with a shudder he collected himself. “It is very important that we go now—and _they_ will not miss us—Do not try to stop me!”

 

This last was directed at Riley, who was now storming up the stairs to the dragondeck. Granby followed after him, his steps coming slow and reluctant. Prince Yongxing was still on deck, he saw, conferring in low voices with Sun Kai.

 

“I wonder greatly at your impertinence, sir,” said Riley, his cheek pale and taut. “You may ask me to swallow your insults and your callow behavior, but you may not ask me to swallow rank cowardice. By God, I will see you court-martialed for desertion!”

 

“Let the court-martial hang me!” spat Dayes. “I will not let you bring Temeraire into danger!”

 

“I suppose you believe he should only go into battle for your sake,” said Riley, biting and quick. “You are unworthy of your beast. Do you suppose _he_ thinks of danger?”

 

“I know he doesn’t,” said Dayes bitterly. “I do not care. I cannot care. You and Will Laurence and China and the world may come baying at my heels, you may never have Temeraire." His eyes found Granby. "Whose side are you on?"

 

"Side?" cried Granby. "George, be reasonable!"

 

He knew it was a mistake when he said it. Dayes' face hardened. “I suspected as much,” he said coldly, and then Temeraire, coiled up anxious behind him rose up and said, “Do not speak that way to Granby!”

 

They all stared up at him, shocked and wary. “Temeraire?” said Granby, tentatively. His ruff was stretched to the utmost limit, his tail whipping back and forth through the air; he looked quite capable of anything.

 

“You chose him for me," said Temeraire. “You chose him for me, and so Granby is mine, too. You cannot—you cannot speak to him so!”

 

Dayes was silent, tight-lipped, white with some unguessable emotion.

 

“Temeraire,” said Granby again, trying to get him to be quiet, but Temeraire went on wildly. “And—and Riley, who has always been kind to me—you only dislike him because he is a sailor—”

 

“No,” said Dayes, his voice contorted and thick. “You are wrong. I _hate_ him for trying to send you into danger for no cause but his own—”

 

“For no cause but duty,” snapped Riley, his face very pale and red spots high in his cheeks, “which ought to be sufficient.”

 

Temeraire shook his head, his eyes wide with distress. "It’s not the danger you oppose,” he said. “That’s not why you won’t agree to the plan. It’s not Riley at all. It’s me that you’re afraid of. It’s—it’s me, isn’t it? It’s me that you don’t trust.”

 

Dayes had no answer. He held his silence, and the ship seemed to hold it with him. The sailors had abandoned any pretense of work to stare, and neither Riley nor his officers had given any mind to bringing them to heel. Temeraire waited, panting as if he had gone a very long distance; he waited, although his wings shivered on his back as if fighting the urge to fly, to flee, but Dayes was silent. Temeraire took a choking breath.

 

“Oh,” he said. His talons dragged into the wood of the deck and splintered it. “Oh.”

 

“You have been turned against me,” said Dayes at last. Granby was reminded of nothing so much as the actors he had seen in cheap plays, repeating lines without any real feeling or understanding. "Riley has poisoned you," he said, more passionately. “The devil’s own luck, if luck it is, to have Will Laurence’s own pet in command of this vessel, steering us into his path; I wonder how he snaked and connived into command—”

 

“No,” said Temeraire, in a terribly calm voice. “I’m not the one that turned.”

 

“Temeraire!” Dayes lunged forward, but too late; Temeraire had already spread his wings, throwing a vast black shadow over the deck of the _Allegiance_. They were all, even the sailors, thrown off their feet by the force of his leap. Temeraire flew for the sun, vanishing into the harsh blueness of the sky.

 

* * *

 

 

That night there was a panic.

 

Granby jolted awake on the dragondeck; he had fallen into a grey half-sleep during his self-imposed vigil for Temeraire’s return. True night had fallen, regardless, and no one could have spotted Temeraire against the darkness. There was shouting in the distance, and it took him a moment to realize that it was not coming from the ship, but from the shore, where a huge bonfire had been lit.

 

“They’ll burn up half the docks,” said one of the foremast hands, but his fellows were not so anxious. "-about time they were sent a lesson-" Granby heard a sailor say, belligerent with drink, and he threw off the blanket someone had draped over him in the night and stood up.

 

The ship was too far, and the fire too bright, for him to make out the details, but the shouting was intermingled with jeers and laughter, all of it male, all of it drunk. There was an ugly edge to the noise that he did not like.

 

“Granby?” said a groggy voice from the deck.

 

“Ferris, you are to keep everyone on the ship, do you understand? Tell the men that I will have anyone who so much as leaves the dragondeck flogged, and I won’t give a shilling how Temeraire will feel about it. Understand?”

 

“Of course,” said Ferris, more alert. “But why—”

 

“I’ll be right back,” he said grimly. “You and you,” picking two sailors at random, “let a boat down over the side and row for me.”

 

The two sailors, who had been roused by the noise and light on the dock, looked at each other, but Granby’s tone had not left much room for confusion over whether he had the right to give them orders. The boat set down swiftly into the sea, where Granby could see, squinting, an ever-shifting mob silhouetted against the flame.

 

He came back not long after, shaken, and feeling dirtied to the last layer of his skin. He said nothing to the watch or to Ferris, waiting for news; he went directly below to Captain Riley's cabin.

 

“We should have left this godforsaken harbor days ago,” said Granby, without waiting to be addressed.

 

Captain Riley did not look up from his desk. He was still awake, despite the late hour, writing out letters. “No. They will attack by morning, I think.”

 

“Yes,” he replied, angry, “because they can see for themselves what’s burning on that beach! And—” he was struck suddenly with certainty. “And you know, too, don’t you? You know what these—I will not say monsters, but there it is—you know what they have done.”

 

Riley finally looked up at that. “Lieutenant—”

 

“They were burning a family,” said Granby. “A black family.”

 

An odd shiver crossed over Riley’s face, that Granby at first thought was guilt, and then Riley spoke.

 

“ _You_ should have been his successor,” he said, as if to himself. “You speak as he would have spoken.” He shook his head as if to clear a distant voice from his ear. “But if you were he, you would understand that to defend home and country is to defend those necessary evils that keep it strong…or you should know it, at least. I thought you would have, anyhow.”

 

 Riley no longer seemed to be speaking of the present moment. Impatiently Granby threw himself abovedecks, there to pace and stare at the sky for a telltale blotting of stars.

 

But no such arrival occurred until the next morning, when Granby, exhausted, finally went to bed. No sooner had his head reached the pillow then little Roland had come chasing through the door, her eyes perfectly round.

 

“Granby, Granby—”

 

“What is it?” he asked, unwillingly alert again, but by then the question had been rendered unnecessary. He could feel the weight of a dragon settling down onto the ship, and then Temeraire’s voice through the decks, calling, “Dayes? Dayes!”

 

“He cannot come, Temeraire,” said Granby, rushing up the steps. It was not untrue, but Granby did not think it prudent to mention that Dayes had, in fact, been thrown into confinement. “I am here, what is it? Should I get Riley?”

 

“There is no time,” said Temeraire, holding out his forehand. “You must come see—one of you must see—”

 

Puzzled, frowning, Granby stepped into Temeraire’s claws. Together they rose above the ship and its troubles until it looked like no more than a decoration on the blue china plate of the harbor. Hovering, Temeraire brought his hand up flat so that Granby could see across the horizon.

 

“Oh, God,” he said, after a shocked moment. In the distance, so numerous and bright he had first mistaken them for a flock of birds, were a hundred or more dragons, all of them equipped for war.

 

* * *

 

 

They could still see the smoke rising out of the town the next evening as they assembled to be viewed. The pirate, Will Laurence, was finally coming out to meet them.

 

He had at least, Granby thought drily, done Riley and Dayes the courtesy of imprisoning them; the rest of them had been let adrift to roam the ship as they liked, endlessly. There was no hope of escape or rebellion, making the ship as neat a prison as they liked. One move to weigh anchor, or remove the chainmail draped over the gunwales, would at once draw the attention of the dragons that now lounged in Temeraire’s place on the dragondeck, as well as that of a dozen pirate ships besides. At first some of the crew had taken advantage of the dazed confusion to wreak merry havoc on the liquor room, but even that impulse had been put to an end when this attracted the bristling suspicions of a particularly large dragon, who had clawed through the deck to see what was going on. The hole in the deck was still there, although the carpenters had been assigned to fix it; it was near impossible to motivate the men to any tasks when they had all already been captured. The jagged hole would greet Will Laurence as he stepped on board. Granby wished he might fall into it.

 

None of them had seen Temeraire since the fighting ended. Granby had managed to convince him to surrender to save Dayes, but then he had been escorted by an entire troop of heavyweights to only God-knew-where. If Temeraire had been taken by the French—and Granby had been prepared for the possibility—there was at least a chance that a victory or parley would see him restored, or even the indulgent fantasy of a rescue. But there would be no chance of rescue from the heart of this vast continent, which apparently held enough dragons to smash the united fighting forces of Europe.

 

In the midst of these thoughts, a small, fast sailor bearing a black pennant pulled up alongside the _Allegiance_. With no ceremony whatsoever, Will Laurence came aboard, followed by one of his lieutenants, a black man who strolled along the deck with an openly amused air.

 

Laurence was much as Granby remembered; broad shoulders set into a perfectly straight line, making him take up more space than he ought to by rights. When he climbed aboard the Allegiance, it was with the sure gait of a sailor raised to the life, and Granby could easily imagine him staying steady on his feet through fire or storm. The only thing that seemed different somehow was his face—not thinner, but carved out of a less substantial material; limestone, rather than granite. He looked as if he had not been sleeping.

 

Otherwise he presented an unexpectedly respectable appearance, with a pressed white neckcloth and a black coat, rather like that of a minister. At least Granby felt his match, in this regard. He had put on his full uniform, moved by a rare impulse to armor himself in formality.

 

The pirate paced before the aviators and crew of the _Allegiance_ as they stood uneasily on the upper deck, taking up nearly the entire surface. His tired-looking eyes seemed to miss nothing, from the defeated expressions of the officers to the sullen resignation of the crew, and then of course the unified coldness radiating from the aviators. His eyes cut through all of them, quickly, and then lingered on Granby. Or so it felt, at least, and when Laurence at last turned away to address the ship, a cold line of sweat had traced down into the valley of his back.

 

“I am William Laurence,” he said, unnecessarily. “You are now formally prisoners of the Tswana Empire. Tomorrow their dragons will take you inland to their capital, there to be held captive until the Tswana see fit to release you.” He paused to allow that prospect to sink in fully. “The journey is long, and your imprisonment likely to be much longer. You will be provided with food and water sufficient for your needs, but it will not be a pleasant captivity.”

 

There was a dreadful understatement in his words, which made them even more foreboding; it would have been far easier to bear if he had menaced them outright.

 

“Any man who so chooses,” he said, “may instead sail with me for a term of one year, and at the end of it go free, with safe passage to any port of their choosing. During your period of service, you will be given the same rights, duties, and pay as any other man in my fleet. I will not expect your replies immediately,” he continued, ignoring both the aghast expressions of every officer onboard and the sudden greedy hope in the faces in the crewmen. “Any man who prefers my service to being taken prisoner should report to this deck by this time tomorrow.”

 

“Surely, sir,” said an anxious voice, “surely you do not mean to apply this ultimatum to all of us here present, as we must not be delayed on our journey—I beg you will allow me to make you familiar with my position as a representative of His Majesty’s government, and the nature of the Chinese envoy on board, which you must regard as a neutral third party in such matters—”

 

Granby squeezed his eyes tight in dread. It was Hammond, of course, thinking nothing of pestering a pirate king with his demands. The look on Will Laurence's face briefly spoke to his own astonishment, but that expression was quickly smoothed into one of polite attention as he listened to one wheedling point after another—the very great importance of Chinese neutrality vis-a-vis the war with France—the uncertainty of their relations—the central role that Temeraire must play—and as Temeraire must go to China, so too must the Allegiance go, if only Mr. Laurence could see his way to letting them free—or perhaps, Hammond added, with a sudden burst of inspiration, they could undertake an overland journey. There could be no objection to the method, but certainly Temeraire and the Chinese envoy must—he repeated, must—return to China.

 

"I am sorry to disoblige you," said Laurence. "The Chinese envoy will, I think, be asked to meet with the Tswana prince, and you yourself should prepare to meet with him as a representative of his majesty's government. But there is no question of allowing you to take the dragon transport, and an overland journey will very certainly send you to your deaths. There can be no allowing it.”

 

Hammond looked even more anxious, if that was possible, and said, “I only ask you to consider whether you are so willing to let Britain sink completely. The failure of this mission may very well mean the collapse of the war against Napoleon, and to see his Empire reign over an unbroken continent for-ever, with no conceivable check on his power or tyranny. And their Lordships,” he added, a note of desperation adding itself to his voice, “would appreciate the gesture greatly, and you may be certain that they will make their gratitude known, in the future.”

 

Granby was hard-pressed not to exclaim. The idea that Will Laurence, who had sunk, burned, or taken half the British slave trade, who had loosed an enemy dragon against a sinking first-rate and precipitated an unprecedented disaster on the Channel Fleet, should receive some vague expressions of gratitude from Britain’s ministers was—impossible, unthinkable. Despicable. He was sure Hammond had no authority to offer such a thing, but he was less sure, thinking on their rotten behavior towards the Chinese, that they would not agree to these terms.

 

Laurence shook his head.

 

"I cannot help you," said Laurence with finality, showing him his back. "Even if I was inclined to, I have not the authority."

 

"Don't they call you the pirate king?" said Hammond in exasperation.

 

In the middle of walking away, Laurence halted dead. He turned slowly, a hard offended look on his face.

 

"No," he said. "They do not."

 

Laurence's second was pressing his hand to his mouth, which was not quite muffling the sounds of choked laughter. He shot the man an astonished glance.

 

"Did you know about this, Mosegi?"

 

Mosegi turned his eyes skyward, apparently trying to compose himself. "Not at all," he said airily.

 

Laurence turned his attention back to Hammond. His gaze had become a withering thing; Granby found his shoulders automatically squaring to attention as it passed over him.

 

"I have no interest in claiming false titles," he said, "Or in parading in honors as if the circumstances of my own birth were not enough for me. Nor are my crewmen interested in bowing to a false king, when they once had one of their own in the lands they were taken from. It is an expression that must be offensive to all who hear it, and you will oblige me greatly by never using that term again."

 

"Oh," said Hammond.

 

"I was elected by a majority of the captains," he continued. "In the absence of a natural authority, that is the only way to settle hierarchy. My term ends at the end of this year."

 

"We're quite democratic," put in Mosegi, having apparently mastered himself. "It must be the American influence." Those words were said with a heavily ironic emphasis that spoke to something bitter. He paused, and then a smile began to tug at the corners of his lips again. He nodded at Laurence. "Go on, tell them what your title is."

 

"The proper term for the temporary commander of a number of ships is Commodore," said Laurence.

 

Mosegi coughed.

 

"And we do things very properly," he said, with a straight face. He looked at Laurence. "Are we finally done?"

 

"We are," answered Laurence, in a tone that caused even Hammond to shut his mouth. He looked over at Mosegi and broke into a language Granby could not follow. The man answered back in the same language, and then went over to one of the Tswana dragons, who had been following the proceedings with suspicion, and hopped into the proffered claw of one of the middle-weights. With a leap they were in the air, and when Granby had looked back over to Will Laurence, he, too, had disappeared into his cutter. The audience was over, as unceremoniously as it had started, and they were again left to their own devices.

 

* * *

 

 

“This is the strangest imprisonment I’ve ever heard of,” muttered Ferris, later, mirroring Granby’s thoughts exactly. They were having an impromptu meeting in Dayes’ cabin, away from as many curious ears as possible. “It’s as if to say we’re not even worth the trouble of guarding properly.”

 

“From their point of view, we’re not, aren’t we?” said Granby. “There must be ten formations worth on that beach alone.”

 

“Even so,” said Ferris, disgruntled, and Granby couldn’t disagree with him. Their total powerlessness was more than ordinarily disheartening, and the apparently cavalier approach of their enemy could not lift their spirits.

 

“But listen,” said Granby, his voice lowered. “Do you think he was serious about his offer? To sail with him for a year?”

 

“I see no reason why he wouldn’t be,” said Ferris. “Some of the sailors have sailed with this Laurence before, and have been telling everyone that will listen, which is all of them, how he is a master prize-taker, and made them all rich. Apparently he was quite a pirate even before he left the Navy.”

 

Granby nodded, only half-listening. Dayes would not be kept anywhere near Temeraire; that much was given. No one with any understanding of dragons would risk it for any dragon, much less one of Temeraire’s strength and capabilities. Temeraire had been escorted inland; therefore Dayes was with the black fleet.

 

“Don’t be concerned,” said Ferris, misinterpreting the taut expression on Granby’s face. “None of the aviators will report for his service. Not that we would in any circumstance, but especially not for _him_. Any amount of captivity would be preferable to that.”

 

Granby opened his mouth, but he could not quite manage to get the words out. He swallowed and tried again. “You have to take care of Temeraire for me,” he said instead. Ferris looked at him in astonishment, uncomprehending, and he added, “You’ll be sent where he is, I think; but I must go. I must go to Dayes.”

 

* * *

 

 

He became aware, gradually, of a voice speaking to him through the bulkheads, and reluctantly lifted his head away from his letter to listen. He felt ashamed of his reluctance; the letter was a hollow endeavor, as it would never be sent, and even if it were, could not be received with any pleasure.

 

“—tried to tell you that you oughtn’t have sent me. I think I’ve only made Moshueshue angrier—well, not him, as you can never tell what he’s thinking, but the king made no secret of his displeasure. I think you had better go talk to them yourself, although I can’t promise that you’ll enjoy it.”

 

“Mosegi,” he called, sighing. “Let us not have conversations through the bulkheads, please.”

 

“That ginger monster is guarding your door,” Mosegi called back, unrepentant. “And as the bulkheads are thin enough, why not have idle conversation where it’s convenient for us?”

 

Smiling despite himself, Laurence got up and stepped out of the cabin, lifting his boots up over the ship's cat sprawled out large and orange in the passageway, and continued down to Mosegi’s adjourning cabin.

 

Mosegi's quarters were nearly as unlike his own as it was possible to be. The cot, though neatly arranged, was covered with brightly patterned cloths, acquired in various African and Brazilian ports, all of which clashed horribly with each other. The sturdy table under the small window was likewise cluttered with more than a dozen curiosities. Several ruby-encrusted gold arm-rings, given to him by the Tswana, occupied equal space with the intact skeleton of a tortoise, a lady's hat adorned with beautifully iridescent bird feathers, fetish charms, a woven basket of Peruvian cocoa leaves, and several handsomely bound books out of which Mosegi was slowly, and painfully, teaching himself to read. The arrangements of items on the table left little room for Mosegi to sit, but he managed it, learning sideways in his chair and propping his long legs on the sea-chest against the wall.

 

There was not a second chair, so they found themselves in the slightly absurd position of both standing; Mosegi, never one for needless formality, lounged against the wall as they spoke.

 

“I must ask you to continue to be our go-between,” said Laurence. “I am sorry to ask it, but I doubt anything good can come from their continued contact with me.”

 

He did not think he had misinterpreted the signs. Both Moshueshue and the newly hatched king, Mokhachane, had been waiting for him in the courtyard of the newly conquered fort. Around them, dragons were busily making the grounds more comfortable, uprooting trees and knocking down inconvenient walls. All of them paused in their work to regard Laurence, glittering-eyed, as he went by.

 

Their suspicion was not allayed by the audience that followed. In his stumbling grasp of the Tswana tongue, Laurence struggled to explain why he had delayed the attack on Capetown, and why he had insisted on giving the Allegiance the opportunity to escape; all the more difficult, as he did not know himself. They had been ready to attack at any point in the past week. If he had acted as the Tswana had wished him to, they might be already sailing towards Rio. He could hardly fault the Tswana for resenting that lost week, and the needlessly butchered lives of the family of slaves on the beach.

 

Moshueshue himself did not express this anger. He did not have to. Mokhachane, awake for once, was full of hissing outrage. Laurence understood perhaps one in seven of the words spat at him, but there was no mistaking his tone and intent. On the other hand Moshueshue, who Laurence thought was rather more dangerous than a hatchling barely five weeks out of the shell, only regarded him with contemplative eyes. He did not speak however until the king, apparently fatigued by her venting, abruptly yawned, tucked her head into her side, and went to sleep. Laurence, remembering Temeraire at her age, was not surprised.

 

The prince said mildly, "My father began to speak, near the end, of this strange dragon you have brought us. There are reports of disease spreading from those who have been near him; a coughing illness."

 

He was purposely speaking slowly and clear, so that Laurence could understand. Even so Laurence frowned and leaned closer in concentration.

 

"A disease? Is it a serious one?"

 

"There is no disease the royal medicines cannot cure," said Moshueshue. "Yet it has raised concerns. Some are saying he is—" he said a word that Laurence did not recognize. Seeing his incomprehension, the prince clarified, “It means one who cannot be trusted.”

 

Laurence could see, from the expression on his face, that others had said the same about him. He forced himself to push that aside. Moshueshue was not a fool, and would not have mentioned Akecheta without a good reason.

 

“Your highness, I must insist on giving Akecheta a place aboard the fleet,” said Laurence, reverting to English; both men understood the other’s language better than they spoke it. “I am reluctant to dictate terms to you, sir, but you must know that you can only keep Akecheta a useless prisoner in your country, when he could instead be your ally. He was a prisoner of the British when we captured his ship; held captive for the crime of wishing independence for his country. I hope you will not prolong his captivity.”

 

Moshueshue only said, “Unfortunately, you have put yourself in a very bad position to be setting any terms at all.”

 

Laurence knew this very well. He’d been aware of it every day of the seven that the _Allegiance_ had lingered in port, refusing to sail, when messenger after messenger arrived with the same demand: attack. He had traded each day for more water from his well of good faith, and he could not now be surprised if he had run dry.

 

All he had in his favor was this: he did not owe the Tswana fealty. The Black Fleet was his, at least for the moment. The tentative trust—and large sums of money—that held the alliance together would be stretched for as long as the Tswana needed the fleet. He could not be gotten rid of just yet. It was something he was distantly grateful for as the conversation moved on; Moshueshue’s face hardened as Laurence explained the arrangement for the taking of prisoners.

 

“You will allow these enemy sailors to carry our men and dragons?” he asked skeptically.

 

“We are in desperate need of skilled sailors, sir,” said Laurence. He had made the same point before, but the Tswana, masters of a vast inland empire, did not always understand the sea. He had already seen dragons on board the _Allegiance_ eye the waves nervously, when the swell was not above three feet. “Your men and dragons would make it no further across the ocean without any sailors than with captured ones.”

 

Too late he realized how this might well be taken as a threat; he tensed, but the stillness of Moshueshue’s face told him nothing. After a while, when Moshueshue’s silence had rendered the dragons impatient, one of them finally put her nose down between them, snorting with suspicion.

 

“So you will keep the dragon you have captured, and the sailors,” said Moshueshue, eventually. “You will forgive the ancestors if they think you profit much by our arrangement.”

 

“I profit you more,” said Laurence bluntly, and took a deep breath. “And one thing else—”

 

“The dragon cannot be allowed to go free,” said Moshueshue.

 

Laurence stiffened as if he had been struck. “Sir, I am willing to speak on behalf of the dragon and his captain to vouch that they will act with honor.”

 

“We are well aware of the value of the honor of Europeans,” said the prince. “The dragon we are no more willing to trust than the man. No; we are not willing to give up one more space to secure freedom for an enemy. The first that you captured, the plague dragon; he was, at least, the enemy of our enemy. But this second dragon is one of the slaver forces. Do you deny it?”

 

“Temeraire is not—” He took a deep breath, and then another. He could feel desperation chasing the words away. “Temeraire is innocent, barely more than a year old. He does not deserve to be made prisoner for no crime other than to belong to the wrong nation.”

 

Moshueshue smiled, grim, and shook his head. “It is unlike you to have made such an ill-chosen point, Commodore,” he said in English. “No. No. You are aware too much, I think, of our great need for you, but on this the ancestors will not be swayed. They will never agree to let such a beast near their captive children.”

 

“Then sir,” Laurence said, pleading. “I hope you will—I would not—that is to say, I should like to be able to assure Captain Dayes of the well-being of his beast. That he is treated well, and that he is not deprived of the natural company of his own kind, and that he should not suffer from want of food or water, or space to fly—”

 

“Enough.” The prince stood, the sleeping hatchling at his feet shifting a little in response. “We do not treat our captives as you do yours. You have done little today save to make demands. You try my patience, and the patience of the ancestors. You are lucky my father is not awake. I suggest you rethink your address.”

 

Laurence knew he should not; he had pressed enough, much further than any gentleman ought to, but he could not help himself.

 

“Your highness,” said Laurence urgently. “I beg you to reconsider.”

 

Moshueshue spoke a word, and five of the restive coiling dragons rose up on all fours at once and growled, a low sound that rumbled through the stones and into his bones, and prowling towards him shielded their prince with their wings. Laurence, a bitter taste in his mouth, had no choice but to retreat back to the ship. On the dock he had looked up at the sound of dragon wings and turned to stone. Temeraire was flying there, slowly and reluctantly, escorted by more than a dozen heavyweight dragons. His head was turned back to look at the ship that held his captain. He did not see Laurence, standing far below him.

 

Sound and feeling returned to him, eventually, when Temeraire had become little more than a speck in the flawless sky. He was shaking.

 

That had been days before. Laurence had thought it prudent to send Mosegi to the Tswana with any updates, rather than himself; Mosegi, he was sure he could trust, even though the man sighed rather now.

 

“Well, at least they didn’t turn me out of their court with fangs bared,” he said, a little cheered. “I suppose they’re fond of me, as it goes, until I say something they don’t expect of me. But I’ve played _that_ role before.”

 

“I have every faith in you,” said Laurence, and then tentatively, “if I do not presume too much to inquire, it was my understanding that several of the dragons offered to take you into their families; the large one, Kefentse—”

 

“My village can’t be brought back from the dead, no matter what the ancestors believe, or hope for. My great-grandmother wasn’t very large or strong, or most revered, but more and more of her memory is coming back to me now. I remember enough to know that going back would be as hard as moving forward. There’s no comfort for me in home, anymore.”

 

“Surely you do not mean to condemn yourself to isolation so easily,” said Laurence quietly. Mosegi looked up at him and smiled.

 

“Oh, well I did _that_ when I killed my old master in the middle of Bond Street,” he said equably. “Any road, you’re the expert on this subject, not me.”

 

Laurence shook his head but allowed the deflection. A few more idle comments saw him take his leave and return to his own cabin. The ship’s cat had run off; gone to terrorize the cooks, no doubt. Laurence lifted his pen to the letter and considered what to write.

 

He still had not managed to scratch out another word by the time the sun sank into the sea. He dressed for bed, falling into the easy rhythm of a ship at sea.

 

The sway of the cot held and rocked him, like his memories of a mother he would never see again, and he drifted quickly into half-consciousness, his mind darting along the grey walkways of his day. In the dark the thin voice of a fiddle rose up from the depths of the hold, far below him in the distant reaches of the ship, the melody haunting and strange. It played for him through the night, and he woke with the memory of it still in his ears.

 

He felt unrested and unwell, but at eight bells he had crossed over once more to the _Allegiance_ to view his new recruits. These were depressingly many, and some of them faces he recognized, that he had hoped better of. Laurence realized he hardly had any grounds to stand on, but he could not help but wince internally as he looked over the mass of sailors; most of the contingent of the _Allegiance_ would be joining them. Some of the hands who had served with him before were trying to catch his eye, but Laurence walked past without stopping.

 

He paused, as he walked down the line to the officers. There were few of them; some older midshipmen who had failed to rate as lieutenants and preferred to desert, and some of the youngest officers, boys twelve and even younger, whose elders had likely given them leave to remain behind rather than face a long and unknown captivity. Only one man in an aviator’s coat stood before him, a young man, little more than a boy, with a lieutenant’s insignia.

 

“Your name and rank, if you please,” said Laurence, and the aviator raised his eyes up to him.

 

He thought perhaps that the young man before him believed himself to be concealing his feelings rather better than he truly was; hatred shone nakedly out of his eyes, although the face was carefully still. Laurence only felt remote. It could not hurt him, deserved as it was, except that the young man had been Temeraire’s lieutenant, and Temeraire had screamed his name when they were dragged apart.

 

“Sir,” he said, coldly. “I am Lieutenant John Granby, reporting for your service.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience. I haven't lately had much motivation to write, and this chapter, although necessary from my point of view, was hard to make interesting for the reader. This chapter was actually supposed to be two, but I felt so bad about not having posted that I rolled them together into one. We're at about the halfway mark, and I'm looking forward to the next few chapters.


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